Quercus Robur
by treacleteacups
Summary: In the Forest of Dean, Hermione found herself. In the foyer of Malfoy Manor, she broke. Post-War, she's fighting for sanity. And a certain werewolf Snatcher decides to turn her world upside down. A retelling of Seventh Year. A bit of Ron bashing, strays wildly from canon & contains wordplay/embellishment/metaphors. Rated M for sexual content and dark/disturbing themes.
1. Chapter 1: Catch Me If You Can

Summary: In the Forest of Dean, Hermione found herself. In the foyer of Malfoy Manor, she broke. Post-War, she's fighting for sanity. It doesn't help either that a certain werewolf Snatcher decides to turn her world upside down. A retelling of Hermione's experiences during the Seventh Book. Contains word play/embellished language, departures from canon, and a bit of Ron bashing. Rated M for sexual content and disturbing themes.

Warnings: Over the top story telling, dark themes, torture, reference to rape (but _no_ non-con), mental illness, and animalistic behaviour.

Author's Note: I wrote this to entertain myself and challenge myself with a bit of existential concepts and word play. Kind of jumps around and has a jarring structure. This first chapter is a mammoth (just over 6,000 words), but the subsequent chapters will be a more reasonable size (approx 2,000 - 3,500 words). Let me know what you think – if it's worth reading, I'll keep writing.

* * *

 _Chapter 1: Catch Me If You Can_

As she rested her head against the aging English Oak, Hermione reflected the days past. Since they had gone on the run, an incredible change had occurred between Harry and Ron. She acknowledged that it was only to be expected. Ever since she had met him, Hermione knew Ron was a bully. From his nasty words cutting to her core and his little jealous spats with Harry, Ron had not done himself a world of favours in her eyes.

At first, Hermione had been heartbroken but as the years passed she had come to fancy the argumentative boy – the same way she realised some girls liked the 'bad boys'. It had taken her a while but when she finally realised Ron wasn't going to suddenly change into a person that would treat her any better, the sudden switch from 'childhood crush' to 'disgusting twat' was astonishingly fast.

Hermione and Harry loved one another as the siblings they never had; Ron somehow lived in their group as a mate, a person that Harry used as a sounding board for his ridiculous plans and inside jokes and boy's talk in the night. But without the buffer of the boys from the dormitory out here in the wilderness, it quickly became evident that Ron and Harry had little in common besides being in the same place at the same time.

In a way she never knew possible, she had become closer with Harry. It was a blessing in disguise when Ron's jealous fury came to a spectacular head on that miserable day in the forest. When Harry finally told her why Ron had left, _jealousy_ once again, Hermione felt a deep gorge erupt in her heart. Ron was jealous of _her_ and _Harry_. The thought of _Ron_ being jealous of _their_ relationship was disgusting. Ron treating Harry that way – the way _she_ had treated Harry back in fourth year – stabbed a spear in her heart. She felt like _she_ was the one that had come between them, despite knowing that Ron's attitude wasn't her fault. And yet it made her feel infinitesimally smaller.

From her earliest memories, Hermione felt uncomfortable with herself in ways inexpiable, always having to speak and demand and lecture until everyone was gone and realising that she had been the one to drive them away. Even when reading in the muffling silence of a library, a dialogue echoed in her head, connecting logic and knowledge almost faster than her neurons could fire. Silence held a stronghold in her heart, causing fear in every pause of conversation.

And yet… In the strange stillness of a forest when even the birds and insects had gone quiet, sensing the magical storm brewing in England, she found herself. Slowly the feeling of almost suffocating self-hate began to abate. Hermione came to terms with the fact that Ron's behaviour _wasn't_ her fault, that he belonged only to himself and it was time the wretched boy took responsibility for his actions.

After stumbling upon this epiphany, a huge breath of air filled Hermione's lungs, as if resurfacing from years of ignorantly keeping her head under water. She was shaken by the freedom of fate, the loss of control, the ability to just _be._ The shocking revelation felt like a star exploding in the universe of her conscious, suddenly aware of the nebula of life expanding around her. She became aware, painfully so, of everything around her and she had been so completely unaware of its breathtaking simplicity until she was willing to see it for herself. What is, what was, no matter how hard you tried to change it. And it was beautiful.

Within this odd comfort, Hermione and Harry had found companionship in the loneliness. Alone but together. In control of nothing. They turned off the radio Ron insisted on listening to day in and day out, slowly growing accustomed to not having to speak to feel the presence of the other. Despite the constant silence she had once feared, Harry liked her (stayed with her) anyway.

Camping had always been something of a novelty for Hermione. Now, against all her expectations of a future researching indoors, she found herself living in peace in the way she instinctively felt humans were meant to. Breathing in the smell of rain in the morning, a freezing bath in lake water and the thrill of a hunt, tracking for food and clutching to survival. Falling asleep to the smell of charred smoke on her clothes and the good company of a friend – a brother – who would watch her back day in and day out.

And it was fun in a bizarre, darkly humorous sort of way. Harry would laugh as Hermione would gasp painfully as she washed in the bitterly cold lakes of the forest, facing away to preserve her privacy yet remaining close enough to protect her dignity. She was always sure to return the favour, even throwing a playful dunking charm at his head when his guard was down and would laugh endlessly as his spluttered oaths.

When they collected wood for their fires, Harry would find a twig resembling a wand and would 'cast' jinxes at her; she reciprocated by pretending the spells worked and falling to the ground as if her legs were turned to jelly. Their laughter would ring and echo in the forest, as light and joyful as church bells.

There was nothing romantic about it, even though the situation would seem deeply intimate on the outside. They had even spent a few evenings discussing late into the night about the very topic and eventually admitting to one another that they loved each other, but it was an intricately simple love. Love that siblings share and though neither knew what that meant having grown up without brothers or sisters, their heart beat the same.

 _Childish_ , she mused, _would be the word_ – _but without the negative connotation. Innocent may be more appropriate. Like two runaways from a storybook._ She smiled, recalling the tales she used to read endlessly of _The Boxcar Children_ and their adventures of an adult-free childhood. Or the beautiful simplicity of _Neverland_ and The Lost Boys (and lost girl, if Hermione was feeling grammatically correct).

It was easy to forget the horror of the outside world in this black-and-white simplicity.

Her thoughts came to a crashing halt as she felt a strange disturbance in the force, although she allowed a small smile at the muggle reference as it churned in her mind. Her smile quickly turned into a frown as her protection wards reverberated in the back of her mind warningly, like a fly struggling in a spider web.

Silent as a doe, she rose to her feet and carefully crept through the forest. The months she and Harry had spent tracking deer and small animals in the dense trees taught her how to avoid the crackling of twigs and to keep her presence to a minimum. She allowed the odd feeling of ' _this way'_ in her mind to guide her to the source of the magical interference, allowing her feet to deftly move over the forest floor like a ghost.

Hermione pursed her lips irritably as she found herself standing in a small clearing, cut away by a wee bubbling brook feeding the ancient, unmoving willows. Her privacy ward lay two feet before her, keeping in any sound, smell and sight from unwanted outsiders. Normally, Hermione wouldn't venture so far from the camp and leaving Harry exposed to attack left a bitter taste in her mouth. Upon seeing nothing worth concern, she turned on the balls of her feet, intent to return to the camp when she stopped spinning abruptly and she let out a strangled gasp.

A man stood directly before her, peering into the darkness. Similar to how she assumed a seventeenth century pirate would appear, this man towered above her with thickly kohled eyes, tan, sun beaten skin and heavy black clothing – the only colour being a splash of a distinctive red band wrapped around his triceps and well-worn plaid stitches.

 _Snatcher_ , Hermione thought with abrupt horror. _What is he doing all the way out here?!_

The man turned and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a strangled cry, desperate to not give herself away despite her iron-strong wards. The man scanned the horizon and, horrifyingly, his electric blue eyes locked with Hermione's terrified gaze. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, smelling a scent on the wind. A smirk quirked his otherwise blank expression. _Her perfume._

Hermione knew in that instant that he could see her. Distress tingled deep inside her mind – _the wards aren't down!_ Her mind quickly supplied. And yet could see through them, like Mrs. Norris could see through Harry's invisibility cloak on occasion. Blown animalistic pupils piercing her with a single-minded fixation, razor sharp cheekbones and a roughish handsomeness gave him away. _Elf, veela, vampire? No – werewolf_ , she thought frantically, her mind sifting through escape tactics at record speed. If a magical being other than a human got close enough to the wards, they would be able to see through them – this normally wouldn't matter, of course, as long as Hermione and Harry kept out of sight of the boundary of the wards.

 _Think, think, think dammit!_ She screamed internally as her mind drew a blank on escape routes. Her mouth fell slack and she felt her body beg to obey an animalistic need to _run!_

Hermione could feel a blood curdling scream crawling up her throat while pinned under his hooded gaze, but she supressed it with sheer determination. Her scrambled mind suddenly calmed. Hermione remembered, distantly, _I'm between him and Harry – and he doesn't know Harry's here. Just me. And I can lead him away._ She lowered her trembling hand from her pale face and defiantly raised an eyebrow at the monster in a silent challenge (and, admittedly, her best impression of a Malfoy glare).

 _Come and get me, asshole_.

The man's lips curled upwards, incredibly sharp canines bared in an alarmingly confident grin. Hermione felt herself pale even further and balked as the man _winked_ at her suggestively, raising his own eyebrow in response to her rather weak challenge. She felt her nostrils flare at the act and drew her wand at record speed just as a voice broke the deafening silence.

"Scabior, whatcha hell ya doin'?! Move on, yea!"

Hermione felt her eyes instinctively jump without her permission to the other Snatchers stumbling into the clearing and a flash of movement in her peripheral vision stunned her like a deer in the headlights. A larger body tackled into her, making her drop her drawn wand onto the leafy forest floor in shock. An explosion of agony rocked her mind as the wards warped, bounced, and shattered like a popped soap bubble under the werewolf's attack, forcing her to arch her back painfully and cry out.

Hermione's eyes stopped sparkling with stars of pain and the grey canopy of the forest came into view. She forced the confusion from her mind and realised arms were wrapped tight around her waist, a face pushing roughly against her neck. She tried to reclaim her lost breath, wriggling weakly, arms trapped between her body and his, desperately trying to push away the body holding her down as panic overrode her senses.

"'Ello, beautiful," a deep, husky voice whispered hotly into her bitterly cold ear, accompanied with a painful nip of sharp teeth, causing Hermione gasp and shudder painfully. "Whatsa lovely itty bitty t'ing like you doin' in the big bad woods?"

"Fuck _,"_ she gasped, gouging her chipped nails down his chest, " _you!"_

An enormous reverberating growl shook her frame as the man's chest pressed impossibly harder into her. Hermione cried out as large hands grabbed her wrists, pinning them easily with one hand over her head and the other arm wrapping firmly around her waist. _Play dead for the werewolf or you'll be eaten, you idiot!_ Ignoring her screaming instincts, she bucked and tossed uselessly against the hard body pressing her hard into the forest floor. Immediately the growl stopped and a hot chuckle breathed against her ear.

"Mm, not yet sweetheart," he crooned into Hermione's neck, uncomfortably exposed to the man's sharp teeth. "Bet ya think you're clever, don'cha? But not clever enough to not be caught," the man teased further, his scruffy check and soft nose nuzzling a mockery of tenderness against the side of her face. Hermione felt herself let out a low whine as she squeezed her eyes shut and thrashed furiously, not even budging the slight yet built frame of the man above her. The headache of the ward destruction still reverberated like a church choir in her skull, making her whine in furious pain.

"Aye Scaibs, whatcha caught 'ere?!"

"Yah yah yah! Share, eh?!"

"Seems like we caught ourselves a pre-dinner snack, lads," laughed the man holding her, his deep voice vibrating through her even as he lifted his head away from her exposed neck to address to his comrades.

An ecstatic war cry echoed through the forest as the men howled, the call of a Snatcher who had captured its prey. Hermione heard herself let out an embarrassingly loud keen of fear and blushed helplessly, followed by an amused chuckle by her captor as he returned to nuzzle her neck once more.

Hermione then felt another magical presence, one she knew all too well – a presence she had come to sense as a second shadow over the past year. _Harry!_ She squirmed harder. She had to tell him to run! _Run, Harry, run!_ She silently begged, knowing the boy all too well to believe for a second he'd leave her struggling on the forest floor, surrounded by Snatchers. She bucked fiercer than before, thrashing with every ounce of her energy.

"Woah there, sweetheart," crooned the man as he easily moulded himself against her to absorb each jolt and nuzzling his face even deeper into the crook of her neck, "No need wearin' yourself out _just yet_." Cruel cheers met his words, the intention behind them clear.

Hermione's eyes flew open and she stared into the canopy, the silhouettes of the yattering men blocking her view. She heard a choked sob and yet barely registered it had come from her, a sudden calm eclipsing her fear and forcing her to view the situation as if outside of her own body.

 _Harry_. She had to protect him; she loved him like a brother – no, he _is_ her brother. She couldn't in good conscience let him interfere, lest she drag him down with her own stupidity. She knew he was strong enough, powerful enough, great enough, _chaotic_ enough to cause Voldemort's destruction on his own.

"I love you!" She screamed out, her voice sharp enough in the silence to cause the few remaining birds in the trees to startle and fly off.

The body above her tensed and the cackling men silenced, surprised by her outburst.

"I know can do this and don't you dare stop because of me! I know you can do it – just trust yourself!" She wailed out, loathing that these private admissions had to be heard by the men around her. "I love you and if you love me, go! Please just go _– now!_ " She screamed even harder, hearing her voice crack under the strain of the situation and the weight of the man above her.

The man leapt up so quickly, so immediately, that Hermione barely had a moment to register the movement. She had been banking on him realising what she was doing, that she was talking to _someone_ , even if his band of Snatchers were too stupid to recognise the meaning behind her words. As he jerked her up by the hold on her wrists, she quickly yanked one hand free and socked the man with the same strength, vindictiveness and conviction she had punched Malfoy with in third year. As hoped, her violent punch surprised her captor so greatly that he was pushed back on his rear to the forest floor, letting her slip through his fingertips.

Hermione landed on the ground with a painful thump and, using every ounce of her dwindling energy, she scrabbled across the ground quickly, barely registering the stones and twigs cutting her skin as she reached out to grab the base of her wand. Just as her fingers made contact with the enchanted wood, she flung her arm in the direction she knew Harry was hiding, casting a silent charm with all her strength and praying to every deity it wouldn't hit Harry's skin.

The mere seconds it took for this to occur passed like molasses in Hermione's eyes. She watched sluggishly as the turquoise spell left her wand and exploded on the exposed tip of Harry's shoe peaking behind a mossy tree, temporarily spelling his sneaker into a one-way portkey. Instantly, he was transported away to their hidden safe camp – hundreds of kilometres away. Leaves and dirt swirled in a furious hurricane where he once stood, indicating his disappearance.

She relaxed against the ground at the sight, breathing in gulps of air as she surrendered and let her armed hand drop. Her peace lasted a nanosecond before she was dragged roughly back by her foot along the forest floor, an angrily growling beast of a man crawling over her threateningly. Everything was forgotten and her vision tunnelled to the singular presence of her captor – the heavy presence of the forest, the roars of the other Snatchers, the sound of stomping feet, all fading away to nothing.

Hermione's eyes adjusted to the sudden shadow of the man's frame as he hovered over her on his hands and knees, trembling with rage. Hermione channelled every bit of defiance in the face of adversity Harry had unknowingly taught her over the years and began laughing hysterically at her furious predator, knowing this would infuriate him further but not caring. _She had won_.

Hermione gleefully locked gazes with the enraged man in smug satisfaction as a large hand enclosed on her neck, choking her breath and sealing her throat. Instinctively, her hands flew to clasp his to try to alleviate the pressure of his grasp to no avail. She never stopped grinning victoriously despite her struggle, holding his hooded gaze as the world closed in and faded into darkness.

* * *

Scabior hates being defied.

That's it, simply. _Defiance._ It's another thing for another Alpha to get on his nerves – they have the experience, the knowledge, the power to get away with it. They've _earned_ it. They to be respected and they've fought for that right. He's an Alpha and knows he gets on most other Alphas' nerves with his cheek, but goddammit he's earned their respect. Respect is earned, not given.

But… But this _tiny little_ _bint_ had dared defy him. Lost in the woods, in the jaws of the big bad wolf and still defiant. He knew she had recognised what he was, filling him with endless fury when she wasn't afraid. She lay there, surrendered yet not submissive, laughing in the face of adversity (literally laughing) when she should have been cowering with unadulterated fear.

He hates it. This unfiltered defiance had filled him with such rage that he had choked the little thing, almost allowing his fury to control him, almost strangling her even after she had lost consciousness.

But Scabior doesn't kill harmless little girls who get in his way. If a piece of trash got in his way no matter their gender (say, totally-bent Bellatrix Lestrange or vicious-to-the-bone Nettia Crabbe or that demon woman Morgana Blaise) he has no qualms about putting them down like the rabid dog they are. But little girls and children? There's a firm line he keeps lest he become one of the beasts he detests. Being a werewolf is uncontrollable, but he's determined to only turn into a monster a maximum of once a month. Let the others kill the defenseless for fun; Scabior won't stop them but he sure as hell won't join 'em.

He had noticed her presence the moment he smelled rosewater and mint, a wafting scent so out of place in the forest that it filled his senses, making his mouth water immediately. When he felt compelled to keep going and _leave_ , he stood his ground. He knew it would work for most muggles and wizards, but he had lived to challenge authority his entire life and the compulsion charm was easy to ignore once recognised.

Her scent had grown stronger and soon he was able to pinpoint her through the wards as he walked past dense shrubbery and into the forest clearing, knowing once he recognised her presence the wards would allow a magical creature to see her. A vital mistake most wizarding kind forget to consider when warding against others, only remembering to protect themselves from the monsters of their own kind.

To his surprise, directly before him in an unassuming background of forest gloom, a gorgeous girl literally materialised. He had expected an older, more experienced witch to have cast such sophisticated wards. She stood facing away from him, her wand no-where in sight (a mistake so disgustingly innocent he rolled his eyes) and searching for danger. She seemed satisfied and made to leave before spinning and suddenly coming face-to-face with Scabior. He pretended not to see her, a game he likes to play with his food, looking around suspiciously before inhaling her intoxicating scent and locking gaze with the startled brown eyed girl. Wide-eyed, pale as parchment, smaller than a bite and close to having a nervous break-down.

He loves the chase, especially when his pretty prey knows it's being hunted.

It was only luck that his men had called out to him, distracting his girl for just long enough to tackle her. He nearly felt bad for how hard she hit the ground but quickly lost any regret as she struggled violently against him, even daring whisper _fuck you_ in that sweet little voice, scratching his chest in defiance.

That had been unexpected – but Scabior likes the unexpected.

What he didn't like, however, was her sudden change in demeanor, arching and thrashing violently in that self-destructive way that nearly had him knocking her out for her own safety. He had enough of her struggles as it only made his men more excited and had threatened her sweetly with that rather innocent innuendo that seemed to strike her to her core; he had been shocked when she began to scream _I love you_. It was so tenderly spoken, so heart-breakingly honest that it shook him with confusion. And then he realised _there's another catch here she's trying to send away_ but the smart little witch had expected his movements and then _punched the living daylight_ out of him.

That ballerina-statured little-itty-bit actually right-hooked him. And it was a mean right-hook, at that.

She suddenly had her wand then but she didn't try to curse him or his men to his unending surprise. She had flung a charm at a random tree and he had recognised the shift of the space as a portkey immediately. Their other catch was gone in an instant.

Defiance. The taste was like bile on his tongue. Even his men looked warily at him, fearful of the backlash of such disrespect yet this little girl laughed and laughed and _laughed_.

Scabior likes his women with spit-fire and passion; he demands obedience from his pack but the need to fight and win always aches in his blood. Most of his female pack could shred any male werewolf with both hands tied behind their back. Yet he knows there is no challenge with this girl – she simply does not fear him because she does not fear death. Anger boils in his veins, wanting to show this innocent piece of wizarding disgrace that death is the last thing she should fear in the face of a werewolf.

It was only after she had passed out from his furious strange-hold that he realised it was shock. Normally his catches cry, beg, plead, or bargain (often with things that makes even his own hardened hide crawl) – they never laughed as freely as this little childe. But he acknowledges everyone reacts to shock in their own way. Her pale frame shook as if freezing in its unconscious state, lips going an alarming blue and skin dropping to a dangerous temperature in his grasp. Shock, definitely.

He lowers himself down on her once more, inhaling deeply against her limp neck in her unconscious state. Past her delicately sweet smell of perfume he recognises a scent that reminds him of flowers in the spring, of the ground after a long-awaited rain, of fresh green moss on a tree, of lime and pineapple and pounding blood and untouched flesh and yet so intricately her – _virginal_ , his mind supplies in that soft moment of peaceful bliss.

Eyes snap open at the revelation. He lifts his head and grins at his men, enjoying their eruption of howls of victory as the heavy tension lifts, despite the black eye even now beginning to swell on their Alpha.

Scabior may hate defiance, but he loves a virgin even more.

* * *

Hermione awoke with the mother of all headaches.

She gasped at the pain and then grimaced when that little action doubles the ache. Grabbing her head tightly in a desperate attempt to ease the pain, she began to rock back and forth to distract herself.

"God mother effing dammit," she uncharacteristically swore as the rocking made her nauseous. To her surprise, her wrists felt heavy and exhaustion over took her, causing her arms to drop back down onto the worn mattress below her.

 _Mattress?_ She thought, startled. Slowly, her poorly lit surroundings came into view as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Unlike her tent with Harry, this tent didn't appear to be magically expanded to fit more than one person – it was rather tight for even one person. A pitched ceiling hovered above and dim lighting illuminated a tiny kitchenette composed of a sink, a stove and a small kitchen island. A small flap fluttered gently next to the kitchen in what Hermione assumed was the entrance to a bathroom stall. It reminded her of a small, dingy, _outrageously_ expensive studio apartment that she had considered renting in London before the chase for the horcruxes began, which seemed like such a lifetime ago.

She lay on a thin queen size cot and she recognised her wand laying innocently beside her. Cautiously, she reached for it and her vision was quickly drawn to something glinting on her wrist. A heavy bracelet of opalescent substance was tightly locked on her wrist and upon checking the other, she realised both her wrists had been shackled by a strange form of jewellery. Panic griped her heart.

 _Magical restraints: Iron ore and pure ivory bonded treated with Cirrumella potion and smoked with Woven Goddess sage for potency,_ her mind supplied clinically – an answer that only heightened her anxiety.

Her headache was caused by magical deficiency, Hermione realised with horror. And her captors had placed her wand next to her to _tease her_ , to show her she wasn't a threat even with her wand. Hermione felt her lungs restrict rapidly, her breath quickening in the beginning stages of a full-blown panic attack.

Facts imploded in her mind, each thought more terrifying than the next. Overexposure to restraints could damage a magical core. Hell, even the use of them against a wizard or witch is considered extreme violation of most Dark Magic restriction regulations for the part they played in sucking magic out of "mudbloods" in the past blood wars. Especially by vindictive purebloods who considered said mudbloods _unworthy_ of having magic, as a blight on humanity.

Hermione didn't know what happened to someone whose magic was sucked out of them (did they become a squib? Die a horrific death?). The topic had been too awful to bear even during her studies so she had stopped her research and shelved the topic for a later date.

In her panic, Hermione watched the restraints flare a light mint green before returning to their dull glow as they absorbed her instinctive need to cast magic. _Think, Hermione, think! What do you know of smoked sage – no! Woven Goddess sage, a magical alternative used for binding magic rather than repelling like muggle sage… Think… Iron ore acts as a natural repellent against magic and ivory acts as the perfect conduit. Woven Goddess sage smoke binds two competing forces and instead of creating a nulling effect, it enhances both without allowing them to obstruct the other!_ Hermione's eyes widened at the implications. _Cirrumbella potion allows two competing forces to act as one and thus is an agent for chaos in most cases, except for very specific treatments…_

Hermione's headache was forgotten as she lurched up with a sudden epiphany. _The forces combine to scramble my magic and destroying it in the act – repelling and conducting at the same time, sucking magic and consuming it. The smallest interference of its magic would bring it to its knees – but the interference would have to be built in to avoid exploding and destroying its host._

Hermione carefully examined the bracelets, knowing that any maker of such an instrument worth their salt would etch in a release rune for emergencies. Well, _hopefully_. If these bracelets were made for truly dark intentions, they wouldn't have a magical release and she would be trapped in them until her wrists were sliced off unless her captor commanded release.

The runes etched on the ivory were a fascinating story in itself – a masterpiece of contradictions which would normally destroy a magical artifact in most cases, yet inscribed to match their intended purpose and delicately activated at exactly the moment they began being smoked with sage.

Hermione almost felt bad about having to destroy such a beautiful piece of wizarding creating – _almost_ being the key word. She decided its purpose outweighed its craftsmanship; destroying it would be a service to wizardkind.

To her relief, she located the key hidden carefully within a spectacularly embellished Venetian rune – a little flower no bigger than a grain of sand yet the trigger to bring the construction magic to its knees. A blooming bud of mistletoe, an ancient Druidic reference to a peace place where warring factions could meet in times of conflict. _Kryptonite,_ she thought maliciously, knowing that comparing such intricate magic to muggle pop culture would make the most respected pureblood spin in their graves. God, she hoped it would work.

Hermione removed a stray bobby pin from her wild, matted hair and carefully positioned the smallest, sharpest end of the worn bobby pin over the flower rune. To calm her shaking hands, she quietly recited, "Sage is for binding, Cirrumbella is for uniting, iron is for destroying, ivory is for conducting. Sage is for binding, Cirrumbella is for uniting, iron…"

Patiently, gently, she pressed the bobby pin against the release, hoping desperately that the entire configuration would collapse and not blow up her left hand like most temperamental Dark Artifacts were known for doing. In a strange moment of sheer pressure, the moment reminded her of that time she had to reset her mum's digital watch by pressing a little paperclip in the back of the face. She smiled ruefully, taking her mind off the thought of being destroyed by the ancient artifact.

To her amazement, a loud _thunk_ echoed through the small cabin space and her left hand was suddenly free, the heavy restraint falling to the mattress and shriveling into a tiny mockery of itself as the magic holding it together imploded spectacularly. A gush of magic and power rushed through Hermione, sharpening her vision and filling her lungs with a taste of freedom.

Carefully, she mimicked the same action for the restraint on her right wrist, going even slower as her left hand was unused to specialist work that her right hand had come accustomed to over the years. With the precision of a surgeon, Hermione pressed the little rune and, in a heartbeat, she was free.

The sudden urge to childishly whoop for joy overcame her, but she crushed it when she heard voices approaching the tent flaps. Grabbing her wand, she inhaled deeply and welled up her remaining dwindling magical reserves in preparation for apparition.

The flap opened and Hermione gripped her wand tightly as she met the strangely hooded gaze of _that man_ from the forest.

"'Ello Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, eyes heated and intense. "Enjoy your nap?"

Before he could put another foot into the tent, Hermione clenched her eyes closed and with a crackling _pop_ was gone into the night.

Hermione had never been so glad to see Harry in her entire life –including all the past times he had returned from a spectacularly dangerous rescue mission that his Gryffindor sensibilities demanded of him.

She had landed with a _thump_ in the safety camp (thankfully, _amazingly_ not splinched). It was a barely habitable island in the middle of a small lake Hermione had warded with the Fidelius Charm after Ron left, knowing they would need a place to hide when they both required rest and recovery.

Harry had swept her up in such a warm, strong hug that Hermione refused to let go and he had to awkwardly shuffle them into the tent and onto Hermione's back-up cot. They lay in each other's arms as she sobbed. The fears she had held back in the last few hours of her capture, her anxiety and fear and overall feeling of complete helplessness came out in a long crying session of babbled apologies and tears. Harry had cried a few tears of relief as well (though she knew he would never speak of it) and together they slowly drifted into slumber, safely cocooned in their safety net, away from the world once again.

* * *

Scabior was, to put it bluntly, furious.

That little girl – _no,_ _woman_ , his mind corrected in betrayal – had been right where he wanted her _twice_ and both times she managed to squirm her way out of his hands. Granted, he had caught her the first time. But escaping and getting away on the second try? Completely and utterly embarrassing.

Truth be told, he had absolutely no fucking idea how she had managed to escape her magical restraints. He rarely used them, knowing their potency was best saved for more dangerous snatches, but he wanted to make a point, goddammit.

And now he had no catch, no magical restraints – how she had destroyed them so thoroughly he had no idea – and absolutely no hint of where to start looking for her. So technically he had lost a potentially very valuable catch and _extremely_ out of pocket now that he had to purchase new magical restraints (an item that doesn't exactly _grow on trees_ ).

To wrap up a rather amazingly shitty day, one of his men had approached him with trembling fingers and handed him a MOST WANTED – UNDESIRABLE NUMBER THREE flyer.

When Scabior saw the moving photo of _his escaped catch_ on the poster, he destroyed half the campsite in his rage. Admittedly, it was a shitty photo and he knew immediately why he didn't recognise her. That horrible, bucktoothed _ugly_ little girl in the photo had transformed into a willowy Aphrodite-like goddess that was all gentle curves and flawless bone structure. And was quite possibly _the_ most wanted mudblood in British history. _Hermione Granger – aged 17._

Scabior felt a migraine of mammoth proportions brewing in the distance. He sat down around the camp fire after his tantrum and let the slowly swelling conversation of his pack wash over time as he nursed a firewhisky.

Clearly, this girl was his new target. She had probably rescued _Harry Potter_ in the woods earlier, the Dark Lord's most hated enemy (and wasn't that a laugh?); finding her would lead to the boy. He had planned on a slow hunt, cumulating in keeping her for himself (how could he say no to that deliciously fiery unbroken spirit?), but this was way beyond his meagre Snatcher station. News of keeping someone as hotly contested and detested as _Hermione fucking Granger_ in his tent for his wicked Snatcher ways would spread like wildfire through the ranks. Though perhaps breaking her spirit before handing her over would win him some kudos with the big boss man.

Scabior snorted at the thought. If the Dark Lord enjoyed anything more than killing mudbloods, it was _breaking_ mudbloods.

He turned in for the night as the flame of the fire turned to deep glowing embers, returning to his tent and laying down on the thin bed. He inhaled deeply against the fabric, enjoying the purely womanly smell still clinging to the mattress. A cynical smile overtook his dark expression, a decision made with consequences to be damned.

Hermione Granger was _his_ catch.

* * *

It had taken him a few weeks to catch her scent again, but when he did it was pure victory. And, in an interesting turn of events, it seemed like she wants to be caught. That or she's trying to throw him off the trail. Either way he's on her mind and he wants to keep it that way.

Her lovely pink scarf lay knotted around the base of an English Oak, her scent wafting in the breeze.

She's stopped using that perfume he noticed the first time, but he only prefers it this way as her natural smell comes through even stronger. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, breathing in the scent of her innocence with pupils blown wide. Scabior's reaction left even his own pack feeling uneasy as he gazed into the distance with a distinctively malicious grin, planning his next move.

Nothing could have prepared Scabior nor his pack for the storm brewing in the horizon.


	2. Chapter 2: All Hail the Firelight

_Chapter 2: All Hail the Firelight_

Ron's return had been something of a bittersweet ending to Harry and Hermione's newly restored peace. Thankfully, Ron had been there to save Harry when he needed it most, stabbing the cursed locket with the Sword of Gryffindor.

But the heroics didn't stop Hermione tasting bile every time she looked at the lanky boy. Harry and Ron fell back into companionship with ease and Hermione almost resented the simplicity of their friendship. Hermione couldn't forgive and forget so easily. Especially after Ron's mumbled apology, fuelled only by Harry's insistence.

Hermione didn't need Harry's help with Ron and his childish moods. The thought made her scowl.

Perhaps her irritation was based on jealously; of having to share Harry again. Initially, she recoiled from the idea but as she considered it further… It made sense. Hermione never had time to get as close to Harry as she had in the past six months; Ron's return basically destroyed months of their progress and Harry returned to his brooding, withdrawn self.

The tension in their group seemed so petty and worthless when Hermione saw the hopelessness, the desperation in Mr. Lovegood's eyes. _Not Luna_ , she had thought desperately. _Not sweet, innocent, defenseless Luna_. The boys were shocked, but Hermione could empathise with Mr. Lovegood's heart-stopping terror. She had felt that fear when caught by the Snatchers. Luna's a pretty girl, surrounded by real evil in the world. Mr. Lovegood had looked at her with true fear and she, in that instant, felt an Arctic breeze pass through her heart. She understood and it broke her heart. The boys didn't seem to realise the implications; it wasn't a fear that they were used to facing. To them, it was too evil, too perverted to even consider. And it was because of this blissfully naïve ignorance that Hermione didn't bother bringing it up. They just wouldn't understand.

Hermione glanced briefly at Mr Lovegood in the chaos of the attack and nodded at him before being sucked deep into swirling space and spat back out again into the dense Forest of Dean.

Ron and Harry immediately broke out into squabbles, debating over Mr. Lovegood's treachery. Their fight turned into white noise as Hermione felt the world quieten around her, the sound of birds and insects absent and, in their absence, the silence was deafening.

She spun on her heel, fearing the worst.

"Mm, 'ello beautiful," murmured _that man_ , stepping forward to crowd her space so suddenly.

Her breath died in her lungs when he reached forward to capture of lock of her hair, twirling it between his fingers as he brought it to his nose and inhaling deeply. She couldn't look away from his kohl rimmed electric blue eyes, trapped like a hypnotised mouse staring into the gaze of a striking cobra. It was too intimate, too sudden after speaking to Mr. Lovegood about the fate of little Luna. Her raw heart leapt into her throat, making her inhale a shuddering breath and push away from the man.

The movement seemed to jolt the frozen boys into motion and suddenly they were running, running, running from the man.

Jeers erupted from the surrounding woods and Hermione caught he man's call " _Well? Snatch 'em!",_ her feet somehow pounding the forest floor even faster and harder.

Despite Ron and Harry training month in and month out for Quidditch, Hermione found herself flying past them at breakneck speed. Her heaving breath burned her lungs, legs aching and vision blurry with adrenaline, yet she forged on, leaping over tree stumps and logs as if training for this chase her entire life.

 _Snatch them!_

The order echoed loud and clear in her ears, forcing her body to strain even harder. Ron had fallen behind but Harry somehow kept just behind her, shadowing her as snatchers seemed to come out of the woodwork.

Hermione managed to leap over an especially large log and used the nanosecond in the air to pull her wand out of her sweater pocket.

" _Bombarda!"_ She screamed as she flicked her wand behind her, careful to avoid the direction of Harry's loud panting.

An explosion of noise and wood chips erupted behind her, accompanied the sound of screaming. Hermione felt a bubble of satisfaction burst in her chest at the sound. As they pushed harder and harder, Hermione cast every hex, jinx, and curse she could remember from Dumbledore's Army behind her. Trees flashed by as she kept her dangerous pace, barely registering the sounds of wailing men and exploding shrubbery in the distance.

She could almost feel him behind her, imagining him reaching out to touch the tips of her hair and nip at her heels playfully. Her heart pounded even harder at the thought.

And then suddenly everything fell to pieces as she heard a jolting _oomph_ to her left.

Glancing behind her, she saw Harry flying in the air and tumbling helplessly to the forest floor.

"Harry!" She gasped, trying to stop and tripping harshly in the process, head over heels.

She scrambled over the rough forest floor to him, thinking so quickly her mind began to skitter and jolt uncomprehendingly. The snatchers were almost on top of them and terror gripped her normally fast instincts. She grabbed onto the first idea her mind threw up and she cast a powerful stinging hex at her friend's face, repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'msosorry" over and over as his face swelled painfully.

Hermione hovered protectively over the helpless boy as the snatchers caught up and encircled the two. She snarled menacingly, brandishing her wand at any who dared to get too close.

Slow clapping had her attention snapping to the man in black and plaid; he approached alongside none other than _Fenrir Greyback_ griping the squirming shape of Ron; Hermione felt herself bristle even further.

"What a _fast_ little doe you are," the man quipped as he approached her, _not even out of breath,_ his swagger casual and unassuming. Hermione didn't buy it for a second.

"And so protective, too! Looks like we caught ourselves wee lioness, eh?" His Scottish accent lilted smugly, clearly unimpressed with her attempts to protect her friend. The men cheered at this jibe in response, making Hermione crouch even more aggressively over Harry's writhing frame.

Like a snake striking, his hand suddenly lashed out and then she was off the ground and pressed into his chest. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, one hand cradling her head to him as he leaned into her neck and inhaled. Hermione tried to yank out of his hold, thrashing violently against the man.

"Protectin' yer wee boyfrien', is tha' it?" He murmured dangerously into her ear, accent suddenly thick and vicious.

Hermione struggled even harder, gasping out in appalled fury " _He's not my-"_

She was thrown from his hold violently, thrust against a tree and spluttering as her breath was knocked out of her lungs. He quickly followed her, pressing her back into the rough bark as he moulded against her frame, sliding a strong hand under her thigh to lift her leg and wrap around his hip suggestively, pinning her to the tree to support her weight and holding her waist still with his own. Hermione tried to calm her breath to no avail, hating how her chest heaved against his.

A flash of pink caught her eye and she felt herself freeze in his hold. Small, bloodied hands raised and grasped the fabric wrapped around the snatcher's neck with abrupt pause. The seriousness of the situation dissolved into the background as her frazzled mind focused singularly on the soft, worn fabric carding through her fingertips. _Mum gave this to me_ , she thought dazedly.

The snatcher observed her, hooded eyes watching she was distracted by her commandeered scarf. Hazel eyes flickered upwards, meeting his cobalt blue ones with curious intensity.

"Let her go!" A furious voice broke through their trance, causing the snatcher to break the moment by tossing his head back and laughing.

"Tha' ginger o'er there seems a bit jealous, eh? Is she your girlfrien' too?" He barked out cruelly to the sound of the other snatcher's jeers. "I won' be lettin' this one go again, now will I?"

She watched him with adrenaline fuelled clarity, suddenly seeing him for the first time without the haze of panic or fury. Matted black hair was drawn back into a leather band in a mockery of the pureblood style, a red streak woven through the locks. His weather worn face was disastrously handsome, his aura exuding a 'devil-may-care' attitude she had seen weaken one too many girl's knees. Lean muscles corded through his neck, a strong jawbone peppered with a shadow of a beard. He certainly considered _himself_ a decent catch. The thought amused her enough to stop fighting and watch him curiously.

The madness and chaos of the situation seemed to have driven her crazy. It must have. Stress had finally made her snap and now she found herself almost relaxed in the arms of this psychotic snatcher. The man turned his burning attention back to Hermione, who had broken from her trance under his shocking blue eyes and felt the weight of the situation drop like an anvil on her shoulders.

She kept as still as possible, pushing her aching head harder against the tree trunk as the man thoughtfully ran a ring-clad finger along the line of her jawbone, down her neck and stopping at the swell of her breast. She was terrified he could read her thoughts, would see her mind's sudden break from sanity in her wild eyes, so she bowed her head and tried to ignore the feeling of tears burning the back of her eyes.

He tipped her head up to face him with a strong finger guiding her chin and he smiled roguishly. A dirty thumb swiped her bottom lip roughly and he murmured, "I see why Fenrir likes you so much… I think you're going to be my favourite."

Hermione felt her heart stop in her chest in terror, salty tears finally breaking and dripping freely down her face.

"Tsk, tsk," he tutted softly. "Don't you cry darlin'. I ain't gonna hurt you," he whispered, leaning closer to bury his head in the crook of her neck and using a heavily jewelled hand to lift her leg higher on his hip to accommodate his closeness. "Much," he added as an afterthought.

Hermione gritted her teeth in understanding. _Little Luna_ , echoed in her head. She wasn't a little Luna, she was a saviour of little Lunas. There is nothing wrong with _being_ a little Luna – but she can't accept, couldn't let go. She has to protect them; even Harry and _Ron_ fit in that category. So completely and utterly unaware of the true evil of the world. Black and white simplicity. The world whole world is grey, and Hermione can see it. Can feel it echoing in the marrow of her bones and electrocuting the tips of her toes all the way to the top of her head.

Hermione decides then.

She relaxed suddenly, letting her disarmed hands raise and tangle in the scarf – _her mother's scarf_ – around the snatcher's neck and she smiles teasingly at him, leaning back in his hold to survey the man before her critically.

She's learned this, over the years. The way Malfoy looks at her (Senior _and_ Junior, her mind shudders), the way McCullen looks at her, the way Krum looked at her and Ron does now. They hate her, because she's beautiful and smart and _so very mudblooded_. Pureblood boys, no matter their 'cause', grow up believing they need to marry good little pureblood girls. Even those "Blood Traitors" like the Weasleys – they still married pure, no matter what – which was the most painful hypocrisy of it all. But they _love_ mudblood girls. She's even seen the way the muggle men at the opera and ballet look at her appraisingly, the way her father shields her from peering eyes.

Hermione isn't stupid. She's not completely unaware of herself.

She pulls on the ends of the scarf to draw him closer, letting it tighten around his neck unthreateningly and she bites her lower lip, using her raised leg to draw him even impossibly closer. She's not sure if she's going overboard, until the Snatcher suddenly seems enchanted. His eyes focus on her, truly on just her since the entire ordeal began, and she gives him a secret smile.

Hermione leans forward suddenly, letting her nose touch the Snatcher's ever-so-lightly. "I didn't think you were clever enough to snatch me again – what's your name?" She's asking imperiously, as if he's suddenly caught her attention. Those acting classes during the summers are a sudden blessing.

"Scabior," the man breathes, looking more and more drawn in as she moves her nose along his, bringing his lips impossibly closer.

Hermione whispers her lips over his cheek and ends at his ear, still keeping a firm hold on her stolen scarf and leg wrapped over his hip. "Scabior," she whispers softly, accented. The reaction she gets from his lean frame is not unexpected and yet still surprising. Hips dig into hers and she parts her lips to gasp softly, pushing her modest chest into his frame and smiling softly, pleased at the manner his eyes flicker to her mouth with reverent distraction and then further down with searing heat.

" _Hermione!"_ Screams the all-too predictable voice of Ron and the moment is shattered, broken in the sound of jealously and rage.

Hermione uses the distraction to bow her back harshly against the bark of the tree she's pinned against and launches the man off her by lifting both legs off the ground, using her hold on the scarf as leverage and bucking violently. The man makes a pained choking sound as he goes down and she's holding the scarf like a leash as she pulls him down to his knees, wavering lightly as he lets out a choked cry and grasps her hips to steady himself, a strong face burying into her abdomen. Hermione flings a binding spell between Harry's swollen jowls and Ron's howling face, noting with a wince as they launch together in a painful sounding crunch.

"Go!" She barks crisply, the sound surprisingly quiet and yet clear as crystal in the shocked reverie of the meadow.

Hermione knows Harry would never leave, but Ron would. In an instant, Ron apparates himself and tows Harry along with him, into a world so far away from her own.

Hermione uses the stunned moment of incomprehension to cast a spell she's never wanted to try on herself in a real battle situation – the _Cervidae Occulum_. Doe Eyes, as it's not-so-affectionately known (her mind constantly provides; _supplying and providing endlessly to an audience of one_ ). Named after the effects it has on the spell user's eyes, enchanting and expanding to give the user the wide vision and mental powers of a deer in flight.

Highly illegal for the single-minded madness it causes the user – often, the castor goes insane in fear and runs off a building rooftop, fleeing in terror from unseen predators.

But it's a logical spell in the right situations, first developed and used by the Navajo as a desperate means to escape desperate measures. Hermione would apparate, but she's exhausted herself of doing something so magically draining by apparating Ron and Harry alongside her to visit and leave Mr. Lovegood's abode.

Hermione has taught herself how to cast this spell wandlessly on herself over the past few months; she knew she would need it. Sometimes the best way to outrun the predator is to think like the prey.

And she's off like the wind, escaping from large hands gripping her waist with expert extraction.

In the future retellings of this story, Hermione would never be able to explain exactly how she dodged through more than fifteen men's claws, especially that man – _Scabior –_ who had hovered so closely to her frame even after her assault, head so worryingly close to her hips that she shuffled the thought away immediately. She had ducked, dodged, swung and spun effortlessly as if anticipating their every move; as if knowing their movements half a second before they did themselves.

Hermione ran as fast as she could, blown irises and pupils taking in a whole world of strange two dimensional, 180 degree forest before her. She jumped instinctively over trunks and roots and weaved effortlessly through the brambles of the overgrown forest, tasting predators on the wind and running faster for it.

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine as something – _someone –_ neared her, catching up in the chase. She didn't know what was worse – Fenrir Greyback or Scabior on her heels. She pressed harder, fiercer, more aggressively than she ever had in her life. Every ounce of strength fuelled her legs, every fear of Death Eaters torturing Harry, torturing her until she admitted her parent's location. Fear for little Luna, for the dark terror in Mr. Lovegood's haunted eyes, for the sadness of failure in Albus' face during their last discussion before his death. She fought for the desperate loneliness in Harry when Sirius passed through the veil and the dawning horror on Harry's face as they realised what his scar really was.

Hermione was so tired, so bone deep tired of all the prejudice and terror inflicted on their world. And in her exhaustion, she found a strange well of boundless energy spring to the surface; a power untapped and unknown until she had reached her furthest depths of exhaustion and desperation.

Hermione knew that this is the last chance she has and knows Harry won't make it without her, despite Ron's newly pledged allegiance, so she fights harder and harder until the stomping feet and smashing of branches starts to fade behind her. She dodges faster, ducks more confidently, runs wilder – and the noise begins to disappear.

She finally crashes through a line of trees and finds herself running full-pelt at a cliff face. It's beautiful – an enormous edge and beyond, a gorgeous stretch of yellow and red autumn trees burning bright as far as the eye can see.

Panic grips her suddenly, realising she's about to launch herself over the edge and she wants to dig her heels in, to miraculously stop on the spot just before the cliff edge, little stones crumbling below her toes and down into the deep ravine, but she can't and then she's launching herself off the edge into the endless forest below –

Then a hard, hot body smashes into her during her freefall and all she knows is darkness.


	3. Chapter 3: The Stars Shine Bright

_Chapter 3: The Stars Shine Bright_

It's darkness when Hermione awakes. She feels her limbs come to awareness slowly, as if her body is slowly adjusting from a long winter sleep. Darkness is comforting to her in this moment, the softness of its edges comforting and willing to welcome her into its arms.

Words around her echo softly, reverberating off the walls of her skull. What was she doing, again? Harry had – no, that's not right… Ron has returned. Then another thought – Mr. Lovegood? The memories suddenly come flooding back, a smashed dam of experiences flooding her brain, and Hermione gasps, lurching up with fervour.

She's surrounded in a forbidding, coldly elegant chamber. She scrabbles to comprehend, facing a league of inner Death Eaters: Lucius Malfoy, Fenrir Greyback, _LeStrange_ , Narcissia Malfoy and – of course, her mind supplies – Scabior.

"Ah ah ah, she's awake!" Squeals the unsound noise of Bellatrix LeStrange, giggling madly as if the whole situation was a big present for her.

And knowing LeStrange, it probably was.

"Petrificus Totalus," purred a monotone voice from the corner of the room and Hermione felt herself lock up and clatter to the floor like a mannequin. Tears flooded her eyes and poured onto the hard marble floor as the voices above her discussed her fate with disinterest.

"Was travellin' wit' Potter, ay imagine," Scabior said conversationally.

"Are you sure? Not one of her many _mudblood_ boyfriends, was it?" Drawled the bored Malfoy patriarch, clearly attempting to sound unimpressed with the Snatcher's finding.

"This little chit _dared_ to lay her hands on our Draco in third year –" Tittered a voice that could only belong to Narcissa (though Hermione never actually had heard the woman speak) before being cut off by her sister.

"Enough!" Screamed the unhinged woman, making Hermione's mind give an involuntary twitch of terror.

" _Where did you get that sword?"_ She raged horrifyingly, pointing into the distance in Hermione's peripheral vision.

Her heart sunk in terror. She'd forgotten about her small satchel, carrying the bloody _Sword of Gryffindor_!

"Found it in 'er things," an unknown Snatcher remarked, causing a flurry of movement as Bellatrix lashed out a wholeheartedly cruel spell (not that Hermione minded too much at the moment), causing the man to buckle to his knees under the whip emerging from her wand.

" _Liar!"_ Screeched the woman. " _Tell me how you got that sword!"_

Scabior, for all intents and purposes, seemed unaffected of his underling's torture as he replied, "Actually, LeStrange, we did – find it in 'er bags, tha' is."

Bellatrix rounded on the Lead Snatcher, who deftly dodged a very near lashing of her wand-wielding whip.

It only seemed to infuriate the witch further and Hermione knew if she could show fear, she would be trembling helplessly on the stone floor. The other witches and wizards didn't see the significance of the sword that had clattered to the floor as the nameless Snatcher has been attacked. Why would they? After all – not many people would recognise the sword rumoured to be forged of Goblin steel, wielded by one of the greatest wizards ever to walk British soil, _and_ the sword Arthur had pulled from the enchanted stone. A sword that Voldemort himself had entrusted Bellatrix to hide away for eternity.

Only Bellatrix and Hermione knew it for its significance, and that terrified both of them deeply.

"Go," Bellatrix breathed, furious.

There was a moment as the Snatchers seemingly disapparated in their haste to leave as the other Death Eaters lethargically loitered around the room. Then Bellatrix rounded on the other occupants of the room ferociously and wailed in pure madness, " _Leave!"_

Hermione felt herself turn cold as they left one by one, suddenly terrified of being left behind to face the full attention of a truly insane, _furious,_ Bellatrix LeStrange nee Black.

* * *

Hermione knows pain. She's gone through a lot of it – especially from Harry's misadventures, the emotional and mental and physical scarring of it all callousing her body and soul.

But Bellatrix LeStrange was an renowned mistress of torture and Merlin did the woman know her stuff.

Hermione had realised a while ago that the wailing sounds were coming from her gaping maw, but she felt detached, distant as the torture went on and on and _on._ She told the woman more than she ever wished to know, spouting off facts and stories and everything her mind could come up with to prevent giving the devil woman the answers she desired. Everything she tells the woman is two steps left of what Bellatrix is asking for, Hermione's mind spouting off endless information _just close_ to what the woman wants to hear but not close enough to connect the dots.

And, like most of her professors, Bellatrix expressed frustration at her unending, overcompensating answers. But in a way Hermione never quite experienced before.

Hermione is scared that she's begun to dissociate from the pain. It's well past the beginning stages of shock and madness, something she has never wanted for herself, _not like Neville's parents – please no,_ she chants over and over in her crumbling mindspace. Death has a certain solace, mercy in finality, and yet Bellatrix won't let her die, keeping her on the edge of complete madness in this twisted game of carrot and stick – rip and patch, torture and heal.

She's always thought she would last longer against screaming, against submission – and yet Bellatrix pulls the wails out of her like a well-oiled machine, humiliating Hermione for her ignorant folly. She answers more questions truthfully than she can bare, but she's twisted the meanings so desperately that Bellatrix can't understand what the omissions mean in the first place. Bellatrix's mad chaotic mind spins uncomprehendingly and Hermione takes refuge in the woman's roars of fury.

All Hermione knows is a world of pain; a burning blade digging into her arms and curses rattling her mind and everything is on _fire. It burns burns burns –_

And then it's not.

Hermione doesn't understand where the torture stops and the pain begins and loses herself in tears of fear and unending sobs. In a moment she's under Bellatrix's cruel snarls and then she's on a cot, rough and strangely familiar yet completely lost. Her world goes dark, finally being allowed respite – a liberation and sweet psalm of relief Bellatrix would never give.

Hermione lets her mind sink into the darkness, grateful for the freedom to escape the world of consciousness at last.

* * *

Things were not going Scabior's way.

Bellatrix LeStrange, horrible viper of a woman she was, had _promised_ Hermione Granger to him. He'd been able to navigate the muddy waters of her twisted logic, convincing her that a smart little mudblood such as Ms. Granger would make a perfect werewolf snack – a prisoner of war, forced to catch other members of her kind for the big bag wolves of the woods. Scabior knew it would appeal to Bellatrix's twisted sense of humour and she _almost went for it_ and then she'd gone totally and unrepentantly insane. _Big surprise there_ , he snarled to himself.

He doesn't know what the deal with the sword is – other than it's heavy as hell and slices through steel and bone like butter.

When Letoh dashed out of that ballroom like hellhounds were on his heels during Bellatrix's rage, he'd sliced his ankle on the cursed sword he'd dropped. The man had gone a disgusting shade of grey as they apparated back to base camp and had promptly collapsed, stone dead.

The camp's Shaman had taken a sample of Letoh's almost black oozing blood and had spent days going over the poisoned blood, finally declaring _Baskilisk venom_.

 _What the actual fuck?_ Scabior mulled, disturbed.

Letoh had been one of his finest; strong, wicked clever and a nifty ability to track anything, anywhere.

And losing Hermione Granger to Bellatrix LeStrange was definitely not part of the plan. It boiled his blood that the little bint had escaped him _again_ for fuck's sake.

 _Ah well_ , he mentally shrugged. _No use crying over spilt mudblood_.

Scabior adjusted the worn barely-pink scarf on his neck as his men began to move out of camp for another hunt. He gazed into the distant misty forest and smirked, blood humming through his veins in anticipation for his next prey.

* * *

Hermione slowly wakes up, her body aching and protesting as her eyelids peel back to take in the blurry surrounds. Her mouth feels like cotton, her body radiating hot pain from her toes to her skull, and her eyes unfocused in the dreary light.

She's aware of someone by her side, a blurry silhouette, warm hands grasping her fingers. She'd know that magical aura anywhere – _Harry,_ her mind supplies.

Hermione attempts a piss poor imitation of a smile, but she sees Harry's face come into focus and the sheer happiness he beams at her makes up for it.

"Hermione! Merlin, you gave us such a fright," he gushes suddenly. "We didn't know for a while there what was going to happen - you've been asleep for days and we really didn't know if you were going to make it." He cuts off with a choke, his lips wobbling as he holds back unshed tears.

"You," Hermione starts, voice rough and throat sore from screaming even after all her rest, " _Idiot._ " Harry begins to laugh, small tears streaming down his face. "As if," Hermione exhales painfully, "I'd let you… do this… by yourself… You're never… getting rid of me, Potter."

Harry beams even brighter, a dying star exploding radiation from his face and momentarily blinding Hermione. "There's my girl!" He laughs joyfully.

Then there's a commotion and Fleur ( _Fleur?!_ Hermione thinks dazedly) bustles into the room, shooing Harry away as she moves towards Hermione's side.

"'Ello 'Ermione, eet eez good to see you awake," she says kindly, her normally intense veela charm dimmed in the face of maternal care. "'Ow are you feeling?"

Hermione carefully nodded her throbbing head. Fleur's English has gotten so much better that it makes her smile proudly at the blonde.

"Ah, aye thought so – much better, but sore, yes?" She carries on genially as she mixes a little bit of bright blue potion into a solid pink potion, the resulting colour a startling green. The whole situation feels so strange to Hermione – a crying Harry, a motherly Fleur, and is that the ocean she smells? _What a fabulous dream_ , she reasons pleasantly.

Hermione plays along and hums in agreement, feeling her eyes beginning to close on their own. Her body feels bone tired, her joints sinking even deeper into the soft, firm cot.

"Ah, ah, 'ermione – drink zees first," Fleur prompts, lifting the vial of neon-green liquid to her lips.

Hermione obeys, if only to get it over with so she can just sleep, and mulls over one last thought before she floats into oblivion – _If this is what insanity is like, no one should ever cure me…_


	4. Chapter 4: Catharsis

_Chapter 4: Catharsis_

When Hermione wakes next, it's to the sound of party partaking on the landing below her. She slowly becomes alert, much more lucid than the last time she recalls consciousness, and takes in the room. It's made of a sturdy, honey coloured wood with a baby blue shag carpet coating the floor. A large window lets in the last of a bright, burning sunset and illuminates the room in tangerine and rose. It is the epitome of comfort and safety, helping her ease back into relaxation.

She's laying on a soft cot, _her cot_. Her bag of things lays in the corner of the room and she realises that her rescuers have pulled out her camping cot she kept tucked in her unassuming purse.

Memories flood her mind and she shields away immediately from the searing pain she recalls like a moment ago, her muscles involuntarily twitching. The dopy pleasantness of the soft awakening is gone in an instant and Hermione jerks up into a sitting position, the webs in her mind cleared as everything comes back.

She's aware of a soft keening noise coming from… _Herself._ Before she knows it, she's sobbing, arms wrapped around her bent knees. Scars litter her forearms and she catches the tail end of the word _Mudblood_ in bright red lettering on her flesh.

Hermione doesn't hear the sound of the door opening and closing softly, but she starts at the feeling of arms wrapping around her in soft embrace. Ginny's fire red hair wraps around her in a cocoon and she's hugging her friend with ferocity, letting the younger girl rock her gently.

"We've got you, Hermione," the girl murmurs, barely audibly over the noise of tears and jovial music downstairs. "And we're never going to let you go again."

Hermione wants to believe her but all she can hear is the sound of Bellatrix's haunting laughter echoing in her head.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity of tears, Hermione wiped her tears and let go a watery huff of laughter, carefully untangling from Ginny's embrace.

"God, 'm such a mess," Hermione hiccupped as she wiped her nose, disgusted.

Ginny trades a watery grin with the brunette and carefully carded her fingers through Hermione's brutally short hair.

"We're gonna need to style this," Ginny stated carefully.

Hermione's hands drifted towards her normally bushy mane and started as she felt just short, jagged locks. She felt her face drain of blood at the memory of LeStrange chopping hair off her head by the handful, scalping slices of her head with the cursed blade.

"How-" She cuts off suddenly, her voice choked with tears. She took a moment to recover and breathe deeply. "How bad does it look?"

Ginny hummed thoughtfully, letting long finger run over the little nicks and scars on her friend.

"Actually, not that bad," she quips suddenly, a cheeky grin breaking out on her face. "I'm thinking of converting to short hair too – imagine the amount of conditioner we'd save between the two of us."

Hermione felt a hysterical sort of laugh burst in her chest and she hugged Ginny with ferocity. "Merlin, I missed you," she giggled, hugging the smirking girl close.

"Yeah, yeah," Ginny teased. "Now let's get you cleaned up and go downstairs."

Hermione paled considerably at the prospect. "Who is here?" She asked with trepidation.

"Well," Ginny began thoughtfully. "We have Harry, Ron – who is still in the dog house for abandoning you, mind – Bill, Fleur, Luna and the twins. We also had Olivander and Griphook here for a few days but they took off last night. Dobby… Well, we'll tell you the story when we get downstairs." Ginny sighed and Hermione felt her gut twist horribly, though the thought of Luna's presence suddenly made her all the more eager to see the others.

Hermione stood on shaky legs and walked towards the ensuite bathroom Ginny pointed her towards. Ginny sat her on the edge of the bathtub as Hermione studiously ignored the mirror, worried about what she'd see.

The mirror was thankfully quiet (whether because she looked _that bad_ or it was non-magical, she didn't care to know) and Ginny carefully snipped away at her locks with steady, patient hands. A magical comb ran through her chopped locks and Hermione had the feeling that it was stimulating hair growth with each pull, evening out the length of her hair to a manageable length as Ginny trimmed and layered generously.

"Luna wanted to have a go at your hair – Merlin, could you imagine?" Ginny prattled as she styled Hermione with a flourish. "You'd end up looking like a Weird Sister with radish weaves. Then again, the girl does have a strange appealing sort of style, so maybe you'd come out looking okay." Hermione felt her cheeks redden at the teasing and she closed her eyes, enjoying listening to Ginny's voice as she went on.

"And don't you scold me for teasing Luna – I'm actually telling you how she said she wanted to style your hair!" Hermione shuddered, suddenly grateful Luna was still downstairs.

Finally, Ginny squealed with joy and pressed pinched fingers to her lips and kissed loudly in an overdramatic gesture of pleased perfection.

"Wa-lah!" She declared, looking at Hermione as if she was her greatest artwork yet.

Hermione stood carefully and looked into the mirror. She barely recognised herself – a short (admittedly cute) pixie cut covered her head in soft, flapper-esc curls and she could see no sign of the scars she knew littered her skull. A small, hairline scar started at the edge of her left jaw and ran the length of her neck, ending just above her collarbone. A few other small scars smattered across her shoulders and disappeared into her loose, cotton t-shirt.

Strangely enough, Hermione thought she looked better than she had in months. She looked rested, those massive black bags hanging under her eyes faded to a dull grey and her once grey skin no longer a pale, translucent shade.

"I know this is going to take a while to get used to," Ginny whispered softly. "But I really do think you look great – the scars will always represent something bad, but Bill told me that it's important to embrace them. They… They should make you proud. To have survived. And they don't define you even though they do tell a story. They say that… you're strong."

Hermione wanted to whip around and slap Ginny in that moment. She didn't _feel_ proud or strong or like a survivor – then she caught Ginny's downcast expression and she knew the girl didn't mean to presume. Ginny was comforting both of them, in a way.

Hermione turned around and swallowed at the fear in Ginny's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the younger girl's hands in her own. Ginny smiled then, a timid little movement so unlike herself that it made Hermione's heart well with compassion and sisterly affection.

Ginny shook herself and then smiled a little brighter. "Well, go on! There's shampoo, conditioner, some amazing body wash from France that smells like chai tea made love to a vanilla stalk and this ridiculously expensive jasmine skin rejuvenation lotion in the cabinet that Fleur keeps trying to hide from me," Ginny gushed while grinning madly. She hopped to her feet and skipped out of the room calling behind her, "And there's some new clothes in the closet for you! Towels in the bathroom are all yours too! Get out soon or I'll come in and drag you out myself!"

Hermione laughed at the girl's antics and rejoiced in taking a shower – a luxury Harry and herself hadn't experienced in nearly a year. She let the boiling water wash over her as she practiced her meditation, focusing on clearing her mind.

It was so easy – so _tempting_ – to use her carefully honed compartmentalisation skills to lock away those memories and never muse over them again. Hermione knew better than to hide like child, but emotion outweighed her knowledge in this rare instance; ignoring the grief she'd need to go through would only exacerbate the issue in the future. But she'd leave processing those feelings until later; right now, she had a date with some shampoo, conditioner and (Merlin help her) posh Veela lotion.

* * *

Ginny led Hermione into the little living and kitchen space of the Shell Cottage ( _a safety house_ Ginny had whispered) and was swamped with hugs by the Weasley Clan and an eager Lovegood.

"Oh," Hermione gasped as someone hugged a little harder than she was used to.

"Off zee girl! Now!" Barked a furious blonde – and to Hermione's surprise, she was released instantly. Fleur had adopted the Weasley matriarch role with ease and strode towards the smaller girl in silence. Fleur carefully grasped her at arm's length and studied her over; Hermione felt uneasy and self-conscious under the beautiful woman's gaze.

"'Ermione – you are gorgeez!" She declared in a no-nonsense tone, blonde eyebrow raised regally.

Hermione blushed so hard she'd thought she'd faint as Ginny catcalled, causing a round of laughter in the suddenly jovial cottage.

"Gorgeeeeeez!" Declared Greg as Forge swooned dearly in his arms, arm flung over his faint brow.

Hermione laughed and laughed and laughed – until suddenly she stopped laughing, realising she was the only one awake in a household that had gone to sleep hours ago. She wasn't sure what happened, but a gaping black hole in her memory shook her out of her humour.

Alone in the darkly lit living room, sitting on the couch and looking out into the distance, Hermione realised that something had happened to her at the Malfoy Manor – something deeply nestled in her subconscious, hidden away from view.

Hermione rose to her feet, acutely aware of the stillness and silence in the house. The living room lay bathed in a blue hue – the birth of a sunrise.

She walked outside onto the golden sand of the Shell Beach. Sunlight began to rise in the farthest horizon, a distant speck of gold and rose. She felt tears cascade down her cheeks as everything seemed to rumble in the background of her mind. Pieces of the night came back to her – laughing, playing cards, drinking a nip of firewhiskey and spitting it right back out, saying goodbye to each person as they slowly headed off to bed – but it wasn't her. It was a different part of her, a different person that shared this memory with her.

Hermione shivered violently, wrapping thin, scarred arms around her waist and stared off into the curvature of the planet, wondering how to carry on from here.

* * *

Everything seemed to go in pieces after that moment in the Shell Cottage, the scattered, haphazard mess of a half-finished puzzle. Hermione didn't know what _precisely_ was wrong with her. Perhaps a second personality, perhaps a lapse in sanity – possibilities haunted her. But she kept it together, if just for Harry's sake. She snuck into Hogwarts with her friends, watched on as the Room of Requirement bloomed into unforgiving flame, as Crabbe fell into a roaring dragon of heat, as Harry disappeared into the battlefield.

She chased behind him, jumping in with a roaring battle-cry. Everything blurred once more, turning into a dark spot of her memory until Hermione suddenly jerked back in control of her mind, aware just as a swift punch knocked her to the ground and into oblivion.

* * *

The sun began to rise over the horizon, a piercing beam of honey and blood orange sweeping the mountains. Hermione's eyelids snapped open, hearing the ending of a well-cast " _Enervate_ " and immediately focused on a dark, smouldering pair of blue eyes.

Instead of screaming and scrambling back like her instincts once would have commanded of her, Hermione's muscles remained relaxed, her mind calm. A warrior's training overtook her, swift and gentle as a summer breeze. She remained motionless, minutely flaring nostrils giving her away.

The kohled eyes remained intensely focused on her, just hovering over her still form.

"'Ello beautiful," a voice whispered, floating gently on the wind.

"Hello yourself," Hermione whispered back, opening her eyes and smiling shyly. Brown eyes glittered black in the tall shadows of a sunrise.

His face shuttered at the words, frame withdrawing and raising into the sky. The heated rays of first sun lit the man like a beacon, illuminating his slight, powerful frame.

Hermione used his momentary sunblind squint to raise her summoned wand. He did the same – and in a heartbeat they were throwing spells at one another.

Their spells collided, erupting in a flurry of foaming magic, overspilling onto the damp forest floor. Hermione didn't dare consider the implications – the soaring power to fight and win sang through her veins. Hermione kept eye contact with those of her determined attacker as the world exploded around them in chaos.

* * *

Hermione wasn't sure when the Battle of Hogwarts began, but she remembers exactly when it ended. Her eyes processed the vision before her, translating the meaning into lighting speed, her years of study and reverent thirst for knowledge suddenly making itself useful.

Harry rose from the caricature of Hagrid's cocooned arms like a phoenix reborn.

Warriors old and young froze in time in that precise moment. Both sides; good versus evil, light versus dark, Death Eaters versus Order of the Phoenix – and wasn't that appropriately named?

Even mad-dog LeStrange fell to her knees as her master looked on at the Child Who Lived with fearfully glittering eyes, whispering hauntingly " _It's not possible"_ and flinching as her words echoed strangely loud across the blooded warpath.

The gods of fate and fortune looked down upon a black haired, green eyed child in that moment, peering down from the heavens at their Chosen One and smiling with favour. The boy-turned-man raised his wand, a boy of legends, descended of Achilles, Hercules, Odysseus, Perseus – a true homecoming.

Excalibur, the sovereignty of freedom and right, crashed down on a serpent head, wielded by another prophesised to come into his own, marked emotionally by the Dark Lord. It was clear to all of knowledge of the prophesy that Voldemort trembled in that moment – suddenly comprehending with horrible awe that it applied to both dark haired boys.

Words barely spoken as the final spell was cast and lay waste the man who cheated death.

The Spectre of a man, crossed with Dark Magic and Hellhounds of Time, collapsed in upon himself. Flight of Death, indeed.

Like marionettes cut of their strings, as one Death Eaters across the Earth fell. Those in hiding, those on battlefields, those in their graves all crumbled into fireless ash.

Nothing remained of Voldemort and his legion – bar the memories and once-human particles floating in the breeze.

* * *

There was no celebration this time.

Enchanted fireworks did not light the sky, parties of reckless abandon did not spill out into the streets, muggles didn't sense another world so thinly pressed against their own as they had during the last Dark Lord's fall.

Cheers and toasts were not made.

Britain mourned in silence and the world joined in solidarity.

A poem echoed in Hermione's head, one that haunted her in her deepest dreams and sat on the tip of her tongue each morning as she awoke, lips already parted to mouth the words as if reciting on stage.

 _"This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends –  
Not with a bang  
but a whimper."_


	5. Chapter 5: Heat and Heather

_Chapter 5: Heat and Heather_

Hermione sighed gently, stretching her cramped hand as she placed the quill into a pot of ink. Even after all these years of writing, she would start to press too hard down onto the parchment as she began to get absorbed in her writing, cutting deep into the thick paper and denting the scarred face of the writing desk wood. She let out a huff of laughter, using her hand to stretch the other back and strain her stiffened ligaments. Standing from her comfortable chair and raising her arms above her head to crack her back, her neck cricked with displeasure at the sudden movement after hours of stuck in a single position.

She glanced around the dimly lit room and blinked in surprise at the lateness of the hour. She faintly remembered setting down a cup of tea in the morning as she sat at her desk to do a few hours of work, and had promptly forgotten everything around her. Even her cup of camomile tea sat untouched at the edge of her haphazardly messy desk, a few flecks of dust suspended in the yellow liquid after hours of neglect. Hermione realised she had sat at the desk for close to nine hours, making the hour six o'clock. She inhaled weakly and braced her hand against the side of the desk, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing exercises.

It had taken Hermione a few weeks of post-Battle prodding– _yelling, arguing, begging, pleading_ – for Harry and Ron to agree to partake in therapy. Group therapy _and_ one-on-one, she had insisted. It had even taken longer to find a mediwizard or mediwitch they could trust and coerce into a Secrecy Oath (to her disgust). It seemed the muggle practice of patient-doctor confidentiality did not have an equivalent in the wizarding world; a fact Hermione discovered was the sole reason very few wizards and witches sought mental health treatment – fear of public humiliation.

Upon emerging victorious from the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione and Harry had plunged into the world of wizarding politics, prepared to fight for their beliefs and cement their morals into the wizarding world as it began to rebuild. Ron had begged out, needing to go back to his family to console a sobbing Mrs. Weasley. Hermione and Harry understood – especially knowing that Ron was using his mother's tears mostly as an excuse to escape to the warmth of his family as the boy needed constant comfort and reassurance.

Hermione and Harry had no one to go back to, so they avowed to keep their warpath of revolutionary change. Hermione had yet to reunite with her parents and, should she be honest with herself, did not really want to reinstate their memories. It was purely selfish, she knew that, but wasn't ready to explain everything to them; she could barely keep herself from breaking down into hysterics on a daily basis. While she recovered, she kept an eye on her parents through a looking mirror and smiled as they lovingly held hands through the bustling streets of Sydney, vowing to join them as soon as she made progress with her mental health.

Hermione collected herself and put on her heavy wool overcoat, strung the strap of her worn purse over her shoulder, applied a thin layer of balm to her chapped lips and pulled on her dragon-hide boots. She strolled out of her eclectically decorated apartment (bless Harry's odd taste in trinkets), carefully locking the door and erecting her admittedly overpowered privacy wards. She had been fortunate to have found this cosy three-bedroom unit taking an entire floor of a tiny apartment complex in the heart of Wizarding London, a brisk ten-minute walk from downtown Diagon Alley. Less neighbours was certainly an added bonus, ensuring Hermione rarely ran into anyone on her way in and out at all hours of the day.

Harry had moved in with her after a few days of staying at the Weasleys ("Please, Hermione. I can't watch Mrs. Weasley cry anymore," he'd begged achingly) and they tidied the other unused rooms, converting the third bedroom into a book-lined study for Hermione. Hermione had been renting the painfully expensive apartment under an alias, but Harry insisted on using his vast fortune to make an offer to the owner they couldn't refuse. After all, who could say no to that kind of money during the middle of a depression?

Hermione's obsessive studying of protective charms provided fruition in the form of a stronger cousin of the Fidelus Charm that enchanted those who knew of the place to forget and supplement those memories with false ones. After a few days of preparation, they had quickly erected the charm on the apartment. Hermione and Harry were immensely grateful the unit took up the entire expanse of the fourth floor and could be hidden easier and thus instilled less-complicated new memories on those who knew of the apartment. It was admittedly semi-legal, for it could damage those with truly emotional ties to the place, but Hermione and Harry knew it was necessary as the wizarding public had become more and more insistent in finding out more about their personal lives, to both of their consternation.

As only the roof of the apartment complex resided above them, the warding magic easily removed the memories of the floor from the inhabitants below and the previous owner of the floor was suddenly positive he had made his sudden fortune from a distant rich cousin who had died in the war. Hermione was grateful as well for Harry's powerhouse-like magical core, which certainly was the only reason they had been able to pull off the powerful charm with only two casters. With Hermione's carefully guided expertise in magical theory, they were quite the team.

Hermione realised she had been standing outside her door, blankly staring at the embellished _No_ _4_ decorating the grained wood as her memories overtook her senses. She shook herself out of her reverie, mentally scolding herself at her brief mental break. She was heading to her six-thirty appointment with the intuitive Dr. Emilian Sequish and couldn't afford to be so distracted.

Taking off down the cobblestone street, Hermione drew her hood over her head to shadow her face. Thankfully, most of wizarding Britain recognised her from her mane of untameable hair so her short locks often hid her from public recognition. However, it was slowly becoming well-known of her new look, so she was sure to case a shadowing charm and a powerful repellent over her features and walk quickly through the throngs of chatting neighbours filling the bustling streets.

Hermione quickly dodged out of the way of a large group of squabbling friends, ducking into an alley and suddenly colliding with unexpected force into a body hidden in the shadows.

"Oomph!" She gasped out as she went tumbling down, tensing in preparation of colliding with hard sidewalk.

To her surprise, the body she'd slammed into fell with her, a large hand enveloping the back of her head and tucking her head under a strong jaw, the other arm stretching out and catching them before Hermione's head could smack on the sidewalk.

The arm that eased their fall stopped Hermione from great harm, but their momentum landed them firmly on the darkened cobblestones of the alleyway. Hermione found herself snuggled into the stranger's clothing, hands fisted in the thick fabric of his coat and face buried deep into the folds. The body folded around her protectively and Hermione subconsciously inhaled, relaxed in surprising trust. The scent seemed so familiar – Hermione couldn't place it, but for the first time in the nine months following the final battle, she felt her barriers lower marginally.

An audible chuckle reverberated from the chest of the body – _man,_ her mind whispered – and she suddenly realised the compromising position they lay in. Her legs lay tangled with the man's above her and a heavy waist pinned her down, her own clenched hands keeping the man pressed against her with a white-fisted grip in temporary panic. _How did she know this man?_ Her mind demanded fearfully.

Scrabbling to move, Hermione opened her aching hands and pushed against the chest she had clung to moments before with fierce strength, desperately trying to get away.

"Now, now, little mouse," an impossibly deep, husky voice whispered into her ear. "No need to panic."

Hermione froze at that voice – she knew that voice, had _dreamt_ of it, had heard it in the late hours of the night when she was her weakest, laughing and joking and teasing her in nightmares, accompanied by imagined glowing blue eyes. She felt all blood drain from her face and was suddenly overtaken with terrified trembling.

Hermione felt herself completely and utterly withdraw, going limp in the arms holding her. She gazed blankly into the dark coat she lay nestled into. Laughter – overwhelming, loud, _insane_ – suddenly echoed in the small alleyway. Hermione smelt burn flesh, her nostrils flaring in horrible recognition. She saw flashes of light in her mind's eye, sickly blues and purples – the colour of _those curses from that cursed woman._

Hermione cried out in pain, her body spasming uncontrollably. A loud war drum beat a tattoo in her skull, slamming and pulsing with relentless madness.

 _Not again not again not again please don't give me to her,_ Hermione's mind screamed silently over and over. Her jaw ground painfully, her teeth gnashing together in the beginning signs of a seizure.

Hermione began to jerk rambunctiously in terror. She couldn't seize in this man's presence, not here not now _please no_ –

Warm arms wrapped around her tighter as she began to thrash uncontrollably, eyes rolling and froth began to seep from the corners of her twisting, contorting lips. The hand cradling her head held her even closer than she thought possible as she bucked and contorted inhumanely, as if under the most powerful of Cruciatus Curses. Hermione retreated deep into her mind, hiding from the pain in her carefully constructed mindscape. Everything began to blur, her eyes disconnecting from her mind as they rolled even harder, rougher than she could handle. She sobbed helplessly as she succumbed to the darkness, turning into its peculiar familiarity like an old friend.

* * *

Hermione lay prostate in Hell.

Flames licked her feet, burning and boiling the soles of her heels with unrepentant hunger. She stretched, crucified on a bed of coals, agonising in the rolling heat with detached mind-numbing terror. Her body refused to answer, controlled by _her –_ that demonic entity Hermione hid from in her darkest of dreams. Hermione screamed and screamed to please the monster feeding on her pain, hoping to hear laughter – for then surely she would be set free. She caught of flash of electrically curling black hair, coiled in pleasure like a beast of its own mind.

The Medusa cackled and, with a flick of her blackened gaze, Hermione turned to stone – petrified, locked in herself, Hermione relived the horror of being aware of her surroundings, trying to tell someone somebody _anyone_ about the basilisk roaming the halls. Of her mind-blanking fear when Harry and Ron discovered her hidden secret. They would chase after Ginny, not tell anyone. Hermione had wailed, screamed, begged them to not go on their own, desperately trying to tell them – but her body never answered her pleas for freedom.

Like those moments in the Room of Requirement when the lashings of _fiendfyre_ tried to pull her down, Hermione felt the flaming coals begin to climb the expanse of her body, uncomprehending heat boiling the very atoms of her watery cells. Steam hissed and plumed as her human flesh submitted to the flames of hell.

All while she screamed.

* * *

Hermione awoke in a cottage. She knew this because the cottage told her so – she smiled in thanks at its kind knowledge.

Childish elation filled her as she realised she was small, barely the size of a five-year-old. She climbed out of the soft, enormous bed and leapt to the front door of the tiny homestead. She opened the door and a massive expanse of flowers met her with colourful warmth. Rolling green hills lay littered with endless colours, a rainbow of comfort.

 _Wales,_ she thought lovingly. Not the Wales of her childhood memories, but the Wales of the Wizarding world. The birthplace of magic, of Druids, of potions and spells and lore. Powerful floral blooms leaned towards her, drawn to the magic of her wild youth.

Heather ( _Erica arborea,_ her mind supplied) released stunningly white fluff in the easy wind, whipping up a frenzy in the imitation of a mid-summer snow storm. Hermione giggled as the soft plumes gently brushed past her bright cheeks and stirred her long, curly locks. She loved so deeply in that moment, looking out before her with reverence. She glanced back to the surprisingly sentient cottage of her awakening and sighed at the sight of a small stone house attached to a waterwheel, turning slowly, patiently alongside the stream that carefully fed the large wooden wheel.

Hermione smiled and closed her eyes, hugging herself gently. She freefell onto the marshy meadow, trusting the soft wild grasses to catch her.

Hermione lay peacefully in Heaven.

* * *

Hermione awoke with soft confusion. Her bones ached, her lips cracked, her mind worn. She remembered traces of her dreams, filled with unspeakable horror and beautiful harmony; she sighed softly.

She came to feel the strong arms encircling her. For the first time, Hermione didn't overthink the situation. She merely pulled those strong arms tighter around her and blissfully drifted back into sleep.

* * *

Scabior woke the moment the girl in his arms resurfaced from her coma. He had nearly pulled away, denial prepared on his tongue and nearly recoiling from her expected fierce anger, then the most unexpected happened – she pulled him closer.

Something shifted inside his soul in that moment. A curling need to protect, comfort, _love_ , filled his being. Scabior nearly snarled at the horrendously fluffy emotions, but couldn't find it in himself to scorn her. After all, the poor girl had surely been through enough. He ignored his aching arm, trapped beneath her light weight, and pulled her closer into his chest, wrapping himself even firmer around her small frame.

* * *

Hermione had never felt so completely complete. Her mind couldn't even supply the words needed to describe that moment and stupidly floated in soft pleasure – her own mind was too busy revelling in the strange feeling of comfort. Hermione realised she lay on her bed in her own room, the familiar sight easing her worries as she rested her head against her soft feather-down pillows. She stretched languidly, moaning in pleasure as her joints popped and cracked.

To her surprise, Hermione slowly came aware of the fact that arms surrounded her waist and she turned gently into the warm body holding her.

 _Scabior_ , her mind supplied. The memories of before suddenly filled her, seizures and terror and hellfire and meadows racing across her memory. Yet, to her surprise, she didn't panic. She was reminded of that moment in the final battle as they faced off for the last time, awaking to his spell and completely fearless of the man before her before they raised their wands and cast unwilling spells at one another in a mockery of enemies.

 _"Now now, little mouse – no need to panic_ ," she recalled him whispering comfortingly. She listened to those words' meaning for the first time as they rolled softly in her mind, reminding herself to not clench or spasm, lest she bring forth another seizure.

Hermione studied the man next to her intently, trying to connect her memory to reality. Those times she had met him, she had been so terrified. Not for herself, really. For Harry. For the war. For her parents and for muggles and for blood-traitors like the Weasleys and the Lovegoods and the Bones. She had let herself become part of the weapon in order to fight Voldemort. She had become Harry's weapon, willing and wanting, in order to destroy the evil man.

But now, with all of those memories and needs behind her, Hermione felt she deserved allowance to study the man.

And man indeed. His sleeping face betrayed a soft youthfulness that Hermione hadn't been privy to before now as he had never been relaxed enough to show his softer side. His strong brow lay relaxed yet slightly dipped down in the rolling emotions of his dreams. Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones cast a small shadow on his face, dangerous yet handsome, reminding Hermione of king cobras that drew their prey in with hypnosis. _Little mouse indeed,_ she thought humorously to herself.

Dark khol lined his eyes and covered deep dark bags, closed eyelids hiding the most fascinating blue Hermione had ever witnessed. A defined jawline was carefully awash with stubble and a barely noticeable stud pierced the bottom corner of his full mouth. Soft, barely pink lips completed his fierce appearance, pursed and slightly twisted. One hundred percent pureblood, she guessed, but cast out for his werewolf misfortune. A paradox upon itself.

Hermione felt something completely foreign take over her – no, not foreign. Something she had felt all those years ago when she had accepted Viktor's hand to attend the Yule Ball. A strange breathlessness that made her grounded, lightheaded, electric and elated all at the same time. Her chest constricted as his arms tightened around her, pulling her into his exposed chest. Hermione nearly 'meeped' audibly upon realising he was shirtless ( _How had she not realised this before?_ Her mind wailed) and felt her breath catch upon being pressed even firmer against his hardened muscles.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure what had come over her; he was asleep and she suddenly felt a powerful rush at the thought of being able to observe, to do, to _play_ , as he had done so with her without his observance. She pressed callused fingertips to his soft lips and held them there experimentally, not making a sound as she hoped he would remain asleep.

His soft breathing never changed and she felt herself growing brave. Hermione braced her hands on either side of his flared, red-streaked matted hair and dipped her head until her lips hovered over his own. She gazed at his closed eyes intently, looking for a sign he would awaken, and when she found none she carefully lowered her lips onto his.

Kissing Scabior was something Hermione had never accounted for. She had thought she would curse him or punch him or… well, _anything_ but kiss the bastard once she finally got her hands on him. Yet she found her lips moulded against his and she sighed, pressing her own softly against his sealed mouth. She focused on forgetting – _what he had done, what he was, what he did to her_ – and just enjoyed the moment with no regrets or concerns. A small hand wrapped around his head without her permission and she arched his neck, allowing a better angle to kiss him. Like a bolt of lightning, Hermione's mind went blank and she laid there, carefully pressed into him. Her guilty pleasure, something she would never tell anyone, _ever_ , let alone the man she was assaulting.

Shuttering at that cruel thought, Hermione curled away and began to withdraw. She prided herself on taking advantage of _no one._

A hand shot out and grabbed her neck, shocking her with startling sobriety. She gasped, trying to pull away and was rolled over, pinned mercilessly against the soft bed beneath her by a hard, unmoving frame. A large hand kept her well in place with a firm grip on her neck, yet it wasn't enough to scare her – just remind her to stay still.

Blue eyes were suddenly sharply gazing down at her own brown irises, lidded and dangerous and _holy hell,_ Hermione thought distractedly.

"When the cat's away, the mice will play," the man murmured, his deep voice pulsing vibrations through into her chest and causing bolt of heat to curl in her lower abdomen. Electric blue orbs focused on her lips and Hermione could barely breathe – she insisted that it must be from his weight, _it has to be._

"Don't you ever stop talking?" Hermione retorted, unafraid and even a little annoyed at the man pushing her down with oh-so deliciously clear intent.

The man – _Scabior_ , her mind whispered reverently – grinned so cheekily that Hermione briefly stung of irritation and then without warning his face was so close to her own that her breath caught in her lungs.

Lips grazed her own with a softness she'd never imagine from the werewolf, her own pink lips nipped at and nibbled until Hermione felt herself melt into the playfulness. She made a soft sound, one she couldn't hold back, something between a moan and a sigh –

Then he was upon her, his mouth descending on her with ferocity. She moaned loudly, helplessly, as his lips forced her own open against her will, a relentless tongue sweeping her mouth with reckless abandon. Hermione felt large hands grasp her hips then trail down to her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist and she eagerly complied.

Instead of pushing back, forcing him away, _screaming_ like her mind told her to – Hermione let herself go for the first time in _forever._ She arched into him and was rewarded with an inhumane growl, the sound causing that little flame in her abdomen to turn into a roaring fire and searing every fibre of her body. Hips slammed into hers with little patience, burning hands holding her in place as Scabior arched and bucked into her spreading thighs. Hermione closed her eyes and revelled in the onslaught, opening her mouth complacently to the man's ministrations and wrapping aching arms around his strong neck in a weak attempt at controlling the kiss.

Heat pressed into her own warmth, something hard and needing and Hermione mewled with pleasure. Those strong hands lifted her hips up and bucked even harder, causing Hermione to break the searing kiss with a gasp and throw her head back into the beaten pillow, crying out as a hard rod pressed into her and forcing that flame in her to burn even hotter. A set of sharp teeth descended on her exposed neck and bit harshly on the join of her shoulder and neck, causing Hermione's eyes to roll back into her skull and a needy cry of pleasure to erupt from her lips. She bucked in reply as he sucked cruelly, an endless sensation of pleasure and utter want.

A roar of torment exploded from the chest pressed against hers and rattled her to her core, that hot mouth never leaving her neck as his hands ran over her and tried to rip off her loose blouse, her tight jeans, her barely laced bra – Hermione returned the favour, small hands scrabbling to undo the heavy belt buckle holding him in ( _barely_ , her mind whimpered) and it came undone with a flourish of clinking metal.

Scabior's hands suddenly caught hers at the sound of buckling metal and yanked the appendages over her head, pinning her wrists above her as he arched into her, his need for friction outweighing the urgency to remove their clothes. Her ankles hooked around his waist, holding on for dear life and urging him on. Hermione gasped a single reverent syllable, easily mistaken, she supposed, for a breathy " _Scabior"_ and had she thought him desperate before, she couldn't possibly describe how he was now.

Lips, endless need, want, pleasure, _fuck_ –

Hermione jolted to a halt, somehow coming to consciousness as she heard the sound of feet approaching her bedroom door.

 _Harry!_ Her mind screamed in horror.

Hermione rolled with surprising strength, knocking the man above her off her bed and onto the hard wooden floor on the opposite side of her bedroom door. Just as a growl ripped through the air, Hermione whispered a begging _hush_ and the door to her small room opened with a whining creak.

"Hermione?" A worried voice called out into the dark.

"Harry!" Hermione gushed, surprised how stable and clear her voice sounded in the dark. She could make out his slight frame in the dim light, Harry's shyness obvious even from her bed.

"Are… Are you okay? I heard sounds coming… From here, I think?" Harry murmured, clearly distraught yet embarrassed, unsure if he was wanted.

Hermione felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her head and she felt her chest freeze in shame.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered into the dark. She felt a hand grab her own and pull it down, griping her tightly in warning. "I'm fine," she told her oldest friend softly, trying to shake the grip off her fingers to no avail. "Just a bad dream." Hermione could almost hear the inaudible snort coming from the left of her bed and griped those fingers harshly in a quiet demand for silence.

"Okay," Harry whispered. "But… Come by if you need anything, okay? Even if I'm asleep, wake me up."

Hermione felt the chill began to lift at her friend's warm words and she nodded, knowing he would see her reaction even in the darkness. "Of course, Harry," she agreed softly. "The same goes for you, okay? If you need anything, I'm right here."

Hermione felt her jaw tighten as strong fingers gripped her own in possessive anger. She wouldn't let a _Death Eater_ come between her and her best friend, _marked or_ _not_ , so she yanked her hand back and was pleased when Scabior let go, scared enough of the Wizarding-Saviour's attention that he released her quickly lest she give him away.

Harry sighed happily and nodded, his now-relaxed silhouette showing her his ease and amiable happiness at her offer.

"Thanks 'Mione – I really appreciate it. Night, hon'," he answered happily, slowly closing the door.

"Sleep well, Harry," she whispered warmly just before the door closed and sealed the room in darkness.

In the stillness of the room, Hermione became acutely aware of the dark creature laying abandoned on the other side of her room. She suddenly felt like a child, wanted to call out to Harry because a monster lay under her bed. Hermione shook herself of her childish reaction and leant over the bed, ready to scold the man – then suddenly she was dragged over the side and her mouth was muffled by a large hand with a smothered "oomph!"

"Living with _Harry Potter_ himself, aye? Do you crawl into his bed often? Warm 'im with your sweet little body, eh?" A snarling, deep voice reverberated around the room and Hermione wished the silencing charms she had in place would evaporate, alerting Harry of Scabior's suddenly ferocious presence. _God – how loud had they been that even her own silencing charms had failed?_ She thought with sharp embarrassment. _And why oh_ _ **why**_ _hadn't she said something while Harry was here?_

Hermione inaudibly argued against the hand over her mouth, her muffled scolding sounding weak even to her own ears.

Scabior tutted at her and Hermione was suddenly aware once more that she lay at the mercy of this man, the _only_ man that had caught her so completely at odds every single time in his presence. She felt burning shame under his gaze, hateful for his insinuations. Hermione bit his hand with fury, suddenly needing to explain herself for some god-forsaken reason.

Scabior yelped with surprise at her actions and snatched his hand back, glaring at her with betrayal.

"Shut up!" She hissed loudly, shocking both of them at her volume. Hermione forged forward, though, knowing the devious man couldn't possibly keep his mouth closed for much longer.

"Harry and I are _nothing_ like that! He's my brother, for god's sake! And if I recall properly, I spent over a _year_ next to his bed and _never once_ 'warmed him' with my _'sweet little body',"_ Hermione retorted coldly, turning his intentionally shameful words back on the man. "I may have slept in his bed, and held him while he cried, but for _fuck's sake –"_

Hermione suddenly found herself silenced by a hot mouth on her own, absorbing the words she was about to spew with passion. She fought for a moment and then felt angry hands trap her wrists down on the coarse wooden floor. Hatred and fury and _anger_ coursed through her veins as she kissed back with vendetta, proving for some unknown reason that she _didn't_ want Harry like that, that she could _never_ want her brother like that. Hermione wasn't sure why it was so important to her as she arched up harshly into the body above her, using the solid ground below as leverage. The resulting warning growl had her trembling with need, but she clung onto her own consciousness with desperation, knowing she shouldn't get trapped in Scabior's addictive heat once more.

Hermione pulled away with a gasp, turning her head and Scabior's mouth chased hers to no avail.

Scabior merely changed course, once again biting down on that spot he had earlier between her neck and shoulder, causing Hermione to whine embarrassingly loud and close her eyes in a concentrated desperation to hold onto her morals. _Motherfucking Merlin,_ she cursed helplessly to herself, head banging onto the timber flooring with limpness as she succumbed to the werewolf's possessive lovebites.

"Sc-Scabior, stop!" She whined pleadingly, hoping she sounded authoritative enough to stop the man. Her answer was a chuckle and the sharp canines of her attacker merely sunk deeper into her flesh as he pressed down harder into her spreading thighs.

Hermione bucked wildly as pain erupted in her shoulder, smashing past the pleasure-pain barrier into an unpleasant sear that reminded her of times better forgotten.

"Scabior!" She wailed abruptly, the noise so completely out of character that even the man holding her down stopped, suddenly still.

Teeth carefully retracted from her skin and Hermione felt a sob wrench from her chest despite her desperation to keep her noise to a minimum. A raspy tongue lapped over her shoulder and Hermione unwillingly began to cry, large salty droplets pouring down either side of her face in humiliating defeat.

"Scabior," she sobbed brokenly, her face burying into a strong shoulder against her will.

A sharp nose buried itself into her short hair in return and the growling pleasure of the werewolf above her somehow broke her from her sudden despair.

"My little mouse," his sultry tones awoke her from her reverie as he spoke forcefully. "This will mean no one will touch you while I'm away – not even your precious _Harry_ ," he spat scathingly. A little nip on her purpling shoulder had her gasping for breath, then suddenly she was lifted with incredible ease onto her bed and kissed within an inch of her life. Hermione moaned into the mouth raiding hers and wrapped willing arms around the body pressing into her chest.

A wayward finger dipped down her hips and Hermione gasped loudly as a finger yanked the front of her creased jeans down. The loose waistline slid down with ease and the hooked finger pulled down all privacy of the front of her hips. She yelped in surprise, rushing to hide her exposed frame and then a kiss like no other was pressed into her heat, an open mouthed invitation that had her gripping his hair and gasping.

The mouth returned to hers and a smug, breathless chuckle was breathed upon her lips as she whined wantonly and then suddenly he was gone with a loud _crack!_ , leaving Hermione on the bed – shockingly cold, completely, _hopelessly_ needy and utterly furious beyond compare.

Hermione sat up with horror. Angry, she fumed – _how dare he leave me on_ _the_ _edge of –_ then she came back to herself and felt such entrenching shame that she curled back in on herself, carefully withdrawing from the events of the night and tucking those memories away into little compartments of her mind. Hermione felt a weak sob shake her chest and she ignored it determinedly, not letting herself break at the sake of _Scabior_ , her own personal boogy monster.


	6. Chapter 6: Of Epiphanies and Canines

_Chapter 6:_ _Of Epiphanies and Canines_

Scabior popped into existence in the hidden hovel of an apartment he now called home. Gasping, he lurched forward onto his bed and braced himself, sharp canines biting onto his lips as his body throbbed with need to return to his _little mouse – no! Mudblood,_ he corrected with forced hatred.

 _Fuck!_ He mentally screamed, letting himself collapse onto the dusty flooring. He trembled with confusion as he remembered the past twelve hours.

Smashing into that small, lithe body in the alleyway on his way out of court-appointed therapy, furious at that _Sequish_ bastard for keeping him later than necessary. Fury at that man's five-thirty appointment for cancelling and causing the doctor to extend his appointment an hour longer than usual.

Scabior trembled with the memory, hating the way the man pursued memories of his mother and father like they meant something. Rich pureblood assholes – what more was there to it? And then, to his consternation, tripping over a shadow he'd barely noticed and then _fuck._ That little shadow immediately registered in his mind as _his_ and he'd wrapped himself around it so protectively, so needily that he'd nearly broken his wrist trying to stop their fall. And then it had _breathed_ him in, drinking up his scent and relaxing so tenderly that he'd frozen in shock. _No one relaxes around a Snatcher._ With a single whiff, Scabior knew who it was, his mind screaming, _fuck! Shit-no-no-not yet!_ And yet his damn body betrayed him, holding her in closer.

Then he had spoken, letting his mouth run amok in a clumsy attempt to seduce her, keep her calm, because damnit he was going to catch this uncatchable girl –

Then she had started to seize. It wasn't something foreign to Scabior – being a Snatcher chasing after deadly prey and answering to even deadlier masters, he'd grown accustomed to his pack or prey succumbing to the occasional seizure from curses or a prolonged torture session. He was grateful that he knew some basic treatment spells to mitigate the damage she could cause to herself.

But when he heard those pleading words falling from her chattering, grinding maw as her attack set in, " _No please, don't give me to her, not her, please no!"_ he'd nearly broken in horror.

LeStrange.

Even after all this time, his girl still lay waste at the cruel hands of LeStrange.

Scabior wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.

He'd slapped her, then. Trying desperately to get her home address from her babbling lips. For surely Potter would be there; the duo were infamous for their inseparability.

"Number Four," she had gasped, as if under a truly horrible curse, making Scabior loath himself even more. "Number Four of Twenty Six, Eiames Lane!" She rattled with barely coherent distress. Then she shuddered and collapsed, horrible froth pouring from her twisted lips and he barely kept her from biting off her own little tongue.

Scabior wasted no time after securing her with spells to protect her from her body's betrayal and apparated them to Eiames Lane, grateful he knew of the location. Clearly, their home was under a Fidelus Charm as Number Four, the fourth level of a building, suddenly expanded from the top of Twenty Six Eiames Lane and showed itself off to Scabior with pride.

He dashed up the stairwell of the building with his mouse in his arms, grateful for his werewolf strength, and banged loudly on the door.

Harry Potter had answered the abused door dishevelled, clearly unused to visitors on their hidden floor.

"You!" The boy had announced suddenly, looking at Scabior with piercing Avada green eyes. Scabior had swallowed in a rare show of being cowed, then straightened himself as best he could with Hermione Granger clutched bridal style in his arms and huffed.

"Yes, _me,_ " he had sneered coldly, pushing past the saviour with false bravado. To his amazement, he wasn't cursed immediately and clenched his jaw at the anticipated brawl.

"What have you done to her?" Came the fierce words of fury. Scabior had expected screaming, yelling, curses – not this quiet threat of death.

"I don't know," Scabior answered simply, glancing back at the confused boy. "I ran into her after leaving my… _Appointment,_ " he stressed darkly, disgusted as the boy's eyes lit up with empathy, "And she began to seize."

Potter jerked with understanding and launched himself towards a shelf of potions. Scabior carefully laid her down on a worn couch and sat on the ground next to her with crossed legs, peering at her occasionally twitching face.

"Does she do this often?" Scabior enquired quietly, hoping the boy would answer with words instead of a curse.

"Sometimes," Potter answered softly, returning with a handful of sluggish looking concoctions. "Dr. Sequish thinks it's mostly mental distress, post-traumatic stress disorder, the muggles call it. Triggered by memory," he explained as he carefully pulled the girl's head back and tipped in one potion after another into her parted lips.

Scabior blinked in surprise, not expecting elaboration.

"She spoke of… Well, I think it was LeStrange," Scabior ventured carefully.

Potter looked at him then with sudden venom, hatred marring his features and twisting the boy's expression into something he'd never seen on the Saviour's face.

"I'm sure," the boy clipped curtly, his face shuttering as he finished pouring the final vial down the now peacefully sleeping girl's mouth. He carefully stroked her throat to ease the potions down and Scabior felt a stab of irritation at the familiarity of the gesture, swallowing it with sudden humility as the boy's face twisted with sorrow.

"She's never spoken of it," Potter suddenly said after a few minutes of silence. "Not even the Doctor can get her to talk about it. I'm scared it's going to destroy her one day."

Scabior understood Potter's frustration with infuriating empathy despite his attempts not to.

"I'm forever grateful," Potter went on, looking unseeingly into a dark corner of the room as he sat on the end of the couch by Hermione's feet. "For you telling us her location," he explained unnecessarily.

Scabior scowled brutishly.

"I'm the reason she ended up there in the first place, you fucking idiot," Scabior barked coldly, not allowing himself to feel anything other than disgust.

Potter looked at him then, with a sudden clarity that had Scabior clamping down on his Occulmency shields because that boy _must_ be able to read his mind with those sharp, piercing eyes –

"You know," Potter started distantly. He paused for a moment and Scabior thought he wasn't going to continue, and then the boy cleared his throat and did. "I knew a man like you once. Chose the wrong side and forever regretted it, but he always attempted to atone when no one was looking. He had the most caustic sense of wit, like you," Potter peered at him humorously then with sparkling eyes and Scabior felt exposed to this little boy, the same way Dumbledore made him feel when he was still at school. He hated it.

"Be honest, be true to yourself. Even if the real you is a mean son-of-a-bitch, like I suspect you are, she'll see past it. Hermione is undoubtedly the smartest witch I know; she loves a challenge." Potter smiled softly at a memory Scaibor wasn't privy to and it fucked him off that this young boy was so much wiser. It made him want to slap the brat.

"There's a difference between unintended consequences and true intent," the boy continued, oblivious to Scabior's violent turn of thoughts. "That man I spoke of lived forever in the shadow of the unexpected consequences of his own intentions. I have a feeling you will as well. But, unlike that man's love – Hermione survived. Treat her well, or I'll kill you," the boy stated simply.

Scabior felt his blood run cold at the threat. It wasn't particularly heated nor nearly as threatening as he was used to hearing, but there was a certainty in the boy's words that reminded Scabior that _this boy_ had fought a Dark Lord and lived to laugh in death's face. And, if rumour were to be believed, mastered death itself.

Scabior shuddered, suddenly realising that this little boy was worse than meeting a father, uncle, and brother rolled into one.

With that threat weighing on his shoulders, Scabior nodded curtly and watched the last Potter slip away after ensuring the Snatcher's understanding.

"By the way, Hermione's room is down the hall, third door to the left. I'd imagine she'll require her rest and someone to keep her company should she awaken. I expect you to keep her calm, lest she experiences another seizure." Then the boy was gone into the shadows of the hall.

Scabior swallowed and nodded once more at the underlying threat, despite knowing the boy wasn't waiting for confirmation of compliance and feeling like a complete and utter push-over in the presence of this fucking _boy_. How the hell did Hermione think that _she_ needed to protect this green-eyed childe? Obviously, the girl was under some illusion that she was his protector, which nearly made him snort.

Then Scabior stopped mentally laughing suddenly as he recalled that day in the forest when he'd first seen her, nearly a year ago to the day, when she'd fought so ferociously to protect Harry, the way a lioness protects her cub – yet with more cleverness and wit than he'd seen in a mere human. She had annihilated his beloved magical-restraining shackles armed only with sheer cleverness, to his unending frustrations. He swooned at her ways as he held her against that tree and unwittingly fell victim to her sudden trickery. Fuck, he had idiotically mocked her before she led his men on in false bravado, then witnessed how she'd convinced that moronic red-head to leave her to the wolves for the sake of Potter. How she'd scarified herself to Snatchers against Potter's will and lured the wolves away with an irresistible goose chase, running off a fucking _cliff_ in order to protect her bonded brother.

Such devotion was something Scabior never dreamed of and it burned him to his core. He would make his mouse fight for him just as hard, if he had anything to say of it.

Scabior carefully scooped the girl – _woman_ , his mind breathed once more – into his arms and followed Potter's directions. He'd planned on leaving her on the couch, none the wiser, but Potter's threat rang clear. _Leave her to suffer and you'lll suffer worse, my friend._

Scabior may be an alpha, but he's also not so stupid as to ignore a being more powerful than himself.

He laid Hermione down on the soft sheets of her tidily made bed, laying down next to her with the determination to stay awake lest she being to seize once more.

He'd fallen asleep, to his irritation, but awoke to her gentle arms pulling him tighter against her little frame. Scabior burned with need then, to wake her up and teach her what he could be – but the threat of Potter remained in his memory and he nestled closer, submitting to his dreams once more.

Then – _fuck fuck fuck!_ His mind supplied, exhausted and wanton and holy fuck Hermione was willingly kissing him.

He wasn't sure it was a joke or a prayer, but her little hand rested under his neck reverently, tasting his lips with soft wickedness.

Then she seemed to recoil, something causing her to retreat and a burning fire lit Scabior's need.

He'd rolled onto her then, needing her so desperately that she melted into him. _Fuck…_ His mind supplied once more, stupidly going along with her aphrodisiac taste and hot mouth and _god damn…_ He suddenly recalled that day in the forest as the little minx had arched into him, then tricked him to his knees. Gods, how he had been tempted to taste what lay before him as she held his head at the height of her hips with only a grip of the scarf like a leash. Scabior discovered in that moment that it happened to be rather potent kink of his – but should he ever show his pack he liked being on his knees for his little mouse, they'd rip him to shreds faster than one could say "down boy".

Scabior shook himself out of his reverie at the shocking sound of his buckle loosening, relishing in her whines and keening noises as she wrapped around him. He almost took her on the bed then and there, but the echoes of Potter's threat hung heavily in the heated room, reminding him that the man was just outside the door. He settled for rubbing roughly against her, yet Hermione's responsive reaction fed his desire, lighting a ferocious need in his bones not felt since that day he caught her in her arms as she flew over that cliff with such certainty –

Then Potter had interrupted as he'd dreaded the boy would and she'd whipped him off the bed, hiding him like a naughty little secret. He'd wanted to announce himself and shame her into accepting him in front of Potter, but Hermione's grip embarrassingly kept him in place, hiding Scabior from her brother with foolish innocence.

He was sure Potter's words sounded innocuous to Hermione, but he heard the intent clearly.

 _"Should he hurt you, come to me and I'll fix it for you."_

How she could fall for such a pathetic act infuriated him, but then he remembered that Hermione trusted Harry with her life. He'd reared, jealous at her innocence, stupidly trying to compare himself to her own bonded brother in a fit of rage and, unsurprisingly, fell short.

Then she'd fallen into his arms once more and he drank her up and….

Fuck.

Scabior completely melted. He had already begun the starting of a mark on her softly scarred skin and he couldn't hold back, biting until she begged for mercy and he had obeyed – he found himself always obeying around her.

He knew she couldn't go much further, but he had to leave a promise of more to come. Yanking her loose jeans down, he pressed a kiss to her womanhood and inhaled sharply at the scent of her arousal.

He almost let himself tell her how much he adored her, worshiped her, wanted to eat her up and kiss her and hold her and –

 _Fuck_.

He disappeared into the night.


	7. Chapter 7: Soul Seeker

_Chapter 7: Soul Seeker_

Hermione lay in her bed the entire day after she awoke groggily in the morning light. She felt ill, as if the night before had been a passive dream concocted by her sick mind and now it was punishing her for dreaming something so horrible.

But the black and blue bruise on her shoulder proved her wrong and she trembled softly at the memory, nestling deeper into her plush bedding and wishing the world could wait for her to return.

It couldn't, apparently. An insistent owl tapped at her window and she scowled, recognising her Doctor's bird. Scrawling an appeasing reply, apologising for missing herfirst appointment since she began attending therapy and promising to attend her next, she sent the bird off after a bite to eat and a gentle pat on its regal head.

Hermione found herself incapable of facing her bed after having left it, memories of a hot mouth and tongue and _bites_ christening those sheets driving her away.

She entered the lounge after carefully wrapping a scarf around her neck and a knitted matching beanie on her head and dumped herself ungracefully on the old, velvety green couch.

"Long night?" A voice questioned from the doorway.

Hermione jumped at the sudden noise and turned towards Harry, smiling against her will. For some reason, the boy always brought out the best of her (to her constant annoyance).

"Mmm," Hermione hummed her answer, toying with the ends of the fraying scarf.

Harry smiled in his mysterious way in reply and came to sit down on the old leather chair next to the sofa. They both faced the smouldering fire and slipped into their meditation, an old ritual long ingrained from their attempts at teaching one another occlumency nearly two years ago now.

Finally, Hermione broke the comfortable silence by clearing her throat.

"Harry?" She asked softly, gaze not wavering from the flickering flames.

"Yeah?" Harry responded distractedly, clearly lost in thought. Hermione smiled softly, glad she caught her brother in such a relaxed state.

"Do you remember a Snatcher named Scabior?" Hermione asked pensively, trying to hide any nervousness from her voice.

The questions seemed to surprise Harry, for he turned away from the flames and appraised her with glowing green eyes.

"Yes," he answered simply. Hermione couldn't find any particular tone in his answer, so she braved forward.

"He was the one who…" Hermione suddenly found her throat clogged, as if her body were attempting to stop her from speaking further.

Harry seemed to understand her frustration and he turned back to the flames, patiently waiting as she cleared her throat again and attempted to explain.

"Scabior was the one who took me there." Hermione finally announced. To her surprise, it wasn't that hard to say in the end, not with Harry looking away first and listening second.

"I know," Harry admitted, brows drawing together with painful recollection. She was grateful he stopped talking and waited for her to continue. Hermione wasn't sure she would be able to if she stopped now.

Hermione nodded firmly, knowing he would see the action in his peripheral vision. She forged on, careful to not step on any emotional landmines lest she blow herself up.

"We met a few times before then. You remember that time in the forest when I turned your shoe into a portkey?" Not waiting for his answer, Hermione kept talking, the words now flooding from her like a broken dam. "I tried so hard to keep them from knowing you were there too. I was so scared they'd find you and then when you arrived, I was even more scared that you'd try to intervene." Hermione choked then, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as it instantly dried.

"Yes, I recall – you almost caught my leg with that spell," Harry chuckled, his light mood paired with a bright smile.

Hermione smiled as well, recalling how scared she'd been that she accidentally cursed Harry. Then her smile fell.

"He took me back to his camp. I woke up on his bed, shackled by magical restraints."

Harry inhaled sharply then, clearly never having heard this side of the story. He gazed at her deeply then, but she continued as if failing to notice his singular attention.

"I found a way to break the magical restraints. Cursed objects they might be, but everything – _everyone_ – has a tell," she whispered into the darkness, brown eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Harry looked at his sister with awe, once again reminded of her cleverness. Even when he thought she couldn't surprise him anymore, she did, blowing past his expectations with resounding irreverence.

"I left my scarf in the forest for him that day. I told you it was for Ron, but to be honest I didn't want Ron to return. It was… ignorant of me. Arrogant," she corrected herself sharply. "I thought he couldn't touch me after my grand escape."

Harry turned towards her, giving up his pretence of looking at the flames. But Hermione was long gone, stuck in haunting memory.

"Then…" she rasped, choking once more. "And then he caught up after we got back from Mr. Lovegood's. He caught up to us and I knew Ron would leave if I told him to, so I made him take you away. I couldn't bear the thought of you being captured – god knows what they would have done to you."

Hermione took a shuddering breath and Harry carefully remained silent, listening to her tale.

"I used a spell that I think may have fractured my mind, Harry, or at least something that protected me from madness in exchange for my sanity," Hermione admitted with dark solemnity. " _Doe Eye_ , the Anglos called it. It reverts the caster to an animalistic frame of mind. When he took me to Malfoy Manner, I think he thought they would dismiss me to him. He hung around, Harry, sticking close. But then _she_ saw the sword and it was over instantly."

Harry shuddered at the sight Hermione painted for him. He turned to her and lifted his hand up to capture her trembling fingers, enclosed calloused hands in her cold, clammy grip.

"She did things that even I don't remember, Harry. I know you want me to talk about it, but I really can't remember. I do remember screaming and begging and answering so many questions." Hermione turned her watery eyes to Harry and he looked back so reassuringly that it made her cry. "I answered so many questions, Harry," she admitted, sobbing. "I thought they would find you for sure."

Harry fell to his knees and wrapped her in a hug, tucking her head against his shoulder as she sobbed.

"I was so sure, Harry, that I'd doomed you," she softly admitted between sobs, burying into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Harry – I thought I would have been stronger, but I broke so fast."

Harry held her closer and listened, waiting for her weak sobs to die down.

"'Mione," Harry murmured soothingly, catching the witch's attention.

She lifted her head and looked at him so entrusting that Harry hated himself for not telling her sooner. He inhaled deeply and admitted with little ease, "Scabior told us where to find you."

Hermione gaped almost comically if it weren't for the shuttering confusion in her eyes.

"What?" She asked stupidly, as if her mind had sealed itself away in shock.

"He found us, god knows how – that man is unparalleled in tracking," Harry rambled suddenly, trying to fill the silence with answers, excuses.

"He found us as Shell Cottage and we all thought we were damned when we saw him walking on the beach towards us. But Bill told us to trust him, claiming something about his 'werewolf alpha senses', whatever that means, and Scabior told us the exact coordinates we needed to find you. He even told us how to get past Malfoy's security. He recommended an elf could pass the barriers and thankfully we had Dobby, someone with intimate knowledge of Malfoy Manner."

Harry cut off suddenly, taking a moment of silence for the fallen elf.

"When we found you, you were moments away from death. God, Hermione, you almost didn't make it. _She_ had done a real number on you. Sometimes I'm grateful that she burned up with Voldemort, because I would have ripped her to shreds for what she did to you. Most days, though, I hate that I didn't have the opportunity."

Hermione stared at her adoptive brother, gobsmacked.

"But…" Hermione felt her voice catch in her throat, trying to process Harry's words and failing spectacularly. "But he did this to me," Hermione whispered, uncomprehending.

"He did," Harry agreed fiercely. "And I will never forgive him for that fact. But he also brought you back, Hermione, in the only way he knew how to. He's not marked, none of his pack were marked, but he had a duty to serve; all werewolves were pulled into Voldemort's sphere of influence and few could summon the support group to refuse." Harry looked away at that, his heart still weeping from the gaping hole left by Remus and Tonks' death.

"As an alpha, he would have sentenced his pack to death if he had refused to aid Voldemort's cause. So he tracked and snatched for the Ministry and kept his pack away from the conflict as best he could. I'm not saying he's good, Hermione," Harry looked at her sternly to drive the point home. "But everyone has a reason for what they've done. That's something that Snape taught me, and it's a lesson I'm not willing to forget easily."

Hermione felt numbed by Harry's speech. All this time, she'd assumed her friends didn't know the whole tale – but, in reality, it was herself who was protected from the truth.

She felt her cheeks redden at the thought of Scabior in her bed. After knowing his actions, it made it easier to accept his behaviour and – god forbid – made her feel less guilty for her impossible attraction to the wolf. Yet she'd allowed him to practically devour her last night before knowing what he'd done. Hermione hung her head in shame and felt large droplets of water begin to streak down her cheeks without her permission.

"'Mione," Harry whispered in comfort, folding his sister into a hug and rocking her gently, the comforting swaying easing her tears.

"I love you so much, Harry," Hermione sniffled, clasping her bonded brother closer to her with trembling arms.

Harry laughed suddenly, holding her close as well. "I know, 'Mione, and trust when I say I love you too. You should see the look your ol' werewolf's face when I say it, too, 'Mione. If looks could kill, the grumpy bastard would have murdered me a hundred times over."

Hermione's eyes turned to saucers as she faced her snickering brother, mouth parted in surprise at his candour. "Oh don't give me that," Harry chuckled deeply, loosening a hand from around her shoulders to lift the scarf around her neck and glance pointedly at large the mark on her neck. "Go get him, tiger," Harry teased, winking devilishly.

Hermione felt herself her face turn redder than a whole family of Weasleys baking in a tropical sun and she launched herself out of the lounge to escape his burning gaze, secretly pleased as Harry's warm laughter chased after her.

* * *

The next day, Hermione woke with a fire lit under her skin and a glint in her eye. She dressed for the day, carefully pulling on her favourite pair of jeans and tucking a soft, loose cotton shirt into her pants. She pulled on her lucky boots (after all, they helped her fight a damn Dark Lord) and stood before her mirror, carefully picking apart her reflection.

It had been so long since Hermione had tried to look decent and she found herself scowling at her appearance. She had kept a lot of that weight off that she'd lost in the forest with Harry during the horcrux hunt, but it wasn't a positive change as it was mostly born from poor appetite and exhaustion. She looked despairingly at her thin, sickly frame, despising how much like a patient of the terminally ill ward she appeared. Dark bags bruised the skin beneath her eyes and what little skin lay exposed to sunlight was littered with accursed scars.

Hermione decided firmly that bitching about her appearance would only make her look even more sallow, so she turned away from the tutting magical mirror and swallowed a particularly strong Pepper-Up potion, eyes crossing as steam erupted from her ears like an angry train, nostrils whistling with fervour.

She left her apartment, head feeling clearer than it had in months.

After all, she was back on a mission – to completely and utter ruin a werewolf's day.


	8. Chapter 8: Cat Got Your Tongue?

_Chapter 8: Cat Got Your Tongue?_

In true Hermione fashion, she began the hunt for Scabior by heading straight to the Loutin Library, a massive archive hidden under a muggle Tescos. The easiest way to sneak into the library amongst the muggles was through one of the checkouts. Hermione collected a few apples to snack on during her research and headed towards an abandoned checkout that the muggles passed by without noticing, eyes jumping from one register to the next, not once seeing the blinking register sign proudly declaring "Register 784".

Hermione approached the little stall and placed her apples on the counter. A bored looking girl with blonde hair and wickedly sharp ears peered at her with disinterest, holding out her hand for payment. Hermione was glad the girl didn't seem to recognise who she was (for the girl had a dazed, apathetic look on her face that clearly said she wasn't into her job) and handed over a few sickles. After handing back the change, the girl hit a key on her old fashioned register unnecessarily hard and the candy bar stand behind Hermione creaked and groaned, opening up to reveal a large set of stairs into the depths below.

Nodding her thanks and ignoring the teenager's angsty roll of her eyes and pop of bubblegum, Hermione chuckled and began the descent into the library. The candy bar stand slammed shut behind her and large torches flared to life, covered the dusty grand staircase with tall shadows.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Hermione greeted the goblin-looking old librarian sitting at an enormous desk. The squat woman squinted at her through half-moon glasses and grinned, showing a mouthful of twisted and missing teeth. Hermione smiled back politely, though she suspected it was more of a grimace, and continued on through large wood doors.

The library itself was in Hermione's top five favourite locations. Huge arching ceilings built of glass panes leaned closer to a cathedral in architecture than a library and it allowed a stunning view of the skies above. Despite the short walk down the steps to the library, the ceiling arched much higher than even the highest point of the Tescos above and reminded her of the wonder of magic. Hermione enjoyed the feeling of warmth and natural light spilling over the endless shelves of books, wishing she could curl up on a rich leather sofa and spend all day reading through the tomes.

It reminded her of the library from Beauty and the Beast, a movie she'd watched obsessively as a child and she supressed a giggle at the thought of _her_ beast coming to a library and showing her his favourite books. _As if._ The strange contradiction of the mammoth structure hidden beneath a supermarket yet privy to a stunning blue sky made her reminisce the days spent in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, looking up at the enchanted ceiling with awe.

Shaking herself out of her momentary bliss, Hermione headed down the steps to the lower tiers and into a dimly lit alcove. Ghosting her fingers over the spines of the books, she was careful to avoid the nasty nipping books trembling with rage at her presence and headed straight for the _Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures, Lore and More_.

Though now considered out of date and awfully biased, the book had no modern equivalent and Hermione floundered as she considered trying to find another less caustic book to read. She'd considered the well-referenced works of Newt Salamander, but his series tended to focus on less humanoid creatures and rather the creatures Wizardingfolk knew little of and often considered substandard. Unfortunately, most wizards only cared to know enough about magical creatures to find their "usefulness" for potions and wand-making, so behavioural studies of magical creatures were rarely conducted.

Knowing her time was limited, Hermione settled into a reading desk and kicked off her boots so she could tuck her chilly feet under her. Very few wizards and witches came down here for reading, the few that did venture down were mostly stressed students of local Universities who were worn ragged with Defence Against the Dark Arts assignments, so she felt comfortably hidden from prying eyes. In her quiet nook hidden from the world, Hermione opened the thick tomb and began to read.

* * *

After a solid four-hour research bender, Hermione leaned back in her chair and observed her work. Six tomes lay open across the table with notes tying in useful information scattered across the works. From the little written about werewolves, other than in-depth analyses of their venom and some fairly violent recommendations on how to defend oneself should you run into a rampaging pack, very little was written. Hermione scowled and once more cursed the ignorant folly of Wizardkind.

Most of the works described all werewolves as literal duplicates of Fenrir Greyback, never once mentioning the ability to be quiet and kind natured, like Remus Lupin. Had Hermione never met Remus, she would have believed the texts to the letter and thought werewolves raging, cruel beasts that turned into their true selves once a month. She was once again reminded how obsessively she used to believe everything in written word and pursed her lips.

Hermione wondered how many creatures behaved the way they did because of how they were treated. Creatures like Buckbeak and Hagrid's little brother Grawp were considered abominations, a statistical non-entity flying in direct defiance of an unwritten rule. But Hermione considered Hagrid's treatment of the beasts, his kind words and understanding that even though these creatures had instincts that may frighten and occasionally threaten humans, it did not make them mindless monsters. Hagrid may go way past the pail from time to time, like trying to raise a Cerberus or a Norwegian Ridgeback or even a horde of Blast-Ended Screwts, but his intent was pure. Creatures like Thestrals were considered dark, even as dark as Dementors (a creature that Hermione accepted was just pure evil), but they were as soft and sweet as a horse if treated kindly.

Sighing loudly, she reread her notes, hoping to understand a little better.

 _89.1 – Werewolf Mating and Other Oddities_

 _Werewolves do not have 'destined mates' or an equivalent as such, differing from their other humanoid cousins of beast like Veela and Syren. However, werewolves do mate for life, choosing a partner based on many characteristics, includes those as follows: scent, affluence, intelligence, hierarchical position, and magical strength – the main key being that it is choice rather than an instinctual necessity. Most werewolves elect to mate with those of their kind. A werewolf bitch_ (at this, Hermione winced and shuddered at the cold terminology) _cannot bear child so the coupling derives from social benefit. In rare instances, should an Alpha fail to provide a viable heir to rule upon his passing, an Alpha male may elect to take a human bride to ensure the pack domination is kept within familial ties. The Alpha will then attempt to mate with the human bride and should she become pregnant, the resulting foetus will be born a werewolf in every meaning of the term as if it had been bitten by an infected party._

 _89.2 – Human Brides and Human Werewolfism_

 _Werewolves choose their human brides via the characteristics noted above. The werewolf will select and mark their mates with a non-venomous bite [for a full delineation of werewolf venom potency throughout the duration of the full lunar cycle, refer to section 87.2] with the intent of leaving their scent and physical claim on the afflicted. As the claim is made with the intent of a werewolf pup, the human bride is then considered as having converted to 'Werewolfism' and having abandoned her human standing in favour for werewolf culture. In wizarding culture, a werewolf's selection of a human bride will often cause the offended human to fall into disrepute and social ostracization, whether or not the marking and resulting claiming was mutual, ensuring the chosen bride will be decried from future social recognition and censured from partaking in wizarding, and thus human, activities._

Hermione pursed her lips once more as the words reverberated cruelly in her head. It made werewolves sound like magical wolves that became humans for more than three hundred and fifty days of the year and then back into wolves – not cursed humans that transformed into wolves for twelve to thirteen days a year. It was a viciously unfair perspective to take, especially since werewolves weren't even "wildly contagious", as the book so nastily put, for an overwhelmingly majority of the year.

And describing a werewolf's relationship as merely a social leg-up seemed a bit ridiculous; Hermione knew for a fact that Remus wasn't an Alpha and yet he married Tonks for love, their little Teddy a sparkling little sprite of love and joy. Sure, Teddy was a werewolf, but to imply that Tonks then gave up all right to humanity seemed so frustratingly arrogantly _ignorant_ that she almost began to cry. It made her realise why Remus was so against their relationship for a long time; Tonks was basically willing to turn into a homeless dog in the Wizarding world's eyes for the sake of love.

It really was no wonder that a creature like Fenrir Greyback would rise through the ranks eventually. Hermione had heard somewhere that Greyback was a born werewolf, most likely raised in a family that had generations of wizarding hatred flowing through their veins. It was rumoured as well that Greyback's father had ripped the mother apart shortly after giving birth, allowing the women of the pack take over Greyback's rearing. It was unfortunately a black and white coin – wizards hated werewolves, and werewolves hated wizards. But what of those caught in between?

Hermione sighed and leant back into her chair, tipping it onto two feet and perching her toes on the desk edge. This certainly made things more difficult, but not impossible. She was so sick and tired of the Wizarding Public believing it had the right to every private aspect of her life, but at the same time she wasn't one to hide herself for fear of public humiliation or shaming. She certainly didn't bow out when Skeeter spent years vilifying her sexual life in the press ( _who even does that to a child?)_ so she sure as hell wasn't going to break now.

After returning the books to their shelves and tucking her notes into her bag, Hermione sat down to await Harry's patronus alerting her he had arrived to pick her up as agreed. Her eyes watched heavy lidded as a wispy stag cantered into the alcove, nodding at her regally before vanishing. Mind made up, Hermione squared her shoulders, took off her heavy woollen scarf to expose a rather bruised set of teeth marks denting her skin, and started walking towards the library entrance with a skip in her step, smiling as she considered the utter madness she was undoubtedly welcoming back into their lives.

Hell, this was probably considered an act of psychological warfare – but Scabior started it first. Things were about to get _fun._

* * *

Hermione sat in the dark of her apartment kitchen, hands fitted comfortably around the warm cup of tea. The sun just began to rise in the farthest horizon, bringing with it burning reds, glowing orange hues, a violent slash of colour and light; she smiled softly, enjoying the calm before the storm. _Red in the morning, sailors take warning. Red at night, sailor's delight_. She recalled the ditty with humour – storm indeed.

Hermione rose to her feet and opened the large window, feeling the cool London chill immediately seep into the kitchen. She poured a cup of thick hot coffee into a large mug and held it out just as Harry stumbled into the kitchen.

"Morning, 'Mione," Harry mumbled drowsily, accepting the cup before gracelessly collapsing into her recently vacated chair and burying his head in his arms on the table top.

Hermione grinned at his antics and pulled out a chair beside the exhausted boy, sitting down primly and turning back to the window.

"How you're always this awake in the morning, I'll never know… You sure you don't drink coffee?" A grumble came from the mound of black, untamed hair on the table and Hermione laughed, reaching out to pat the horrendous mess.

"I could barely sleep," she admitted, sighing. "With any luck, there will be no news today. But we're hardly known for our good fortune."

"Speak for yourself," Harry whined, looking up at her blearily. "Don't you remember? I'm a fucking lucky charm."

Hermione snorted indelicately at that, shoving a bowl of cereal in his direction. "Then be a good boy and eat your Lucky Charms."

"Yes, _mum,_ " Harry grumbled and then was wolfing his breakfast down with ravenous hunger.

"You know, you'll need to start making your own breakfast soon. I doubt Maria's going to want me feeding you," Hermione remarked lightly, barely hiding a cheeky smile.

Harry choked at that, glaring up at her as he protected his bowl of cereal with an arm like a lion defending his prey.

"For god's sake, 'Mione, I told you! We're not exactly on great terms – she won't even talk to me on a good day," he moaned pathetically, looking down at his meal with sudden disinterest.

"Oh please, Harry," Hermione scoffed. "That Italian witch might be pricklier than a cactus, but you're the only one she treats like that. The girl has it for you, bad."

Harry looked up at her suddenly, eyes glittering with mischief. "I've made a sport of getting her to totally lose it at me," he sniggered. "I have no idea what Kingsley was thinking pairing me up with _her_ on the Lowinski job, but something about, ' _For the sake of international relations, Harry.'"_ The deep voiced imitation of Kingsley actually sounded fairly accurate and Hermione sniggered.

"Mhmm," Hermione appraised Harry thoughtfully, leaning back in false consideration and raising an eyebrow suggestively. "He was probably thinking about _your_ relations."

Harry choked at this, staring at her wide eyed. "Oh my god, Hermione. It's way too early for your awful attempts at dirty humour."

Hermione cackled at his constipated expression, feeling much better now than she had this morning. Harry often had this effect on her – now if only she could keep this good mood going.

A strange _whoosh_ sound was heard from the window and then a rather astonishingly loud _bang!_

Hermione and Harry whipped around to look at the source of the noise and gaped at the sight of a wall of owls trapped in the open window. It appeared the flock had all attempted to dive in at once to be the first to arrive and had become stuck in the frame. Hermione counted at least twenty owls of varying sizes and observed, wide eyed, as they squawked and pecked on another on the head viciously, struggling to be free.

"This is all you, Hermione," Harry intoned, nodding derisively at the mass of feathers.

Hermione sighed again, feeling like she was doing that all too much often these days, and waved her wand at the flock. They burst through the window and flopped on the floor in unison, pecking wildly at one another in contempt.

"Now, I'll have none of that!" Hermione barked sharply. The birds immediately stilled and eyed the irate witch. "I will absolutely not be answering any letters you've brought at this time and if I do decide to write back, any responses will be handled by my own owl."

The birds flapped furiously at this declaration, clearly under instruction to harass the brunette until an answer was penned, then silenced immediately as Hermione stood so quickly that her chair toppled over noisily.

"I expected you lot and have set up few bowls of bacon and water over by the sink. You may drop your letter off here," she gestured at an allocated spot. "Collect a quick snack then depart _immediately_ ," Hermione firmly informed the disgruntled birds. "Now, line up and deposit the letters in the allocated circle or get out."

To Harry's utter shock, the birds obeyed Hermione's imperious tone and he hid a grin, amused that even birds couldn't escape his sister's overt bossiness. They marched one by one to the base of the table and deposited their mail in the pentagram of chalk Hermione had drawn on the floor earlier that morning. Some letters hissed and bubbled upon contact with the warding pentagram and the birds delivering those cursed letters seemed to twitch in apology before flying off for their morning snack.

Even more owls filtered through the window as the morning progressed and by nine am, Hermione had an impressive collection of over two hundred letters (of those that hadn't burnt to a crisp). Hermione had busied herself by cooking bacon and topping up the water bowl and Harry merely watched the bizarre bird parade in a trance over his copy of The Daily Prophet. Incoming owls seemed to understand the congo line of letter delivery and queued patiently upon landing.

"Weird birds, owls," Harry noted apprehensively, more used to the chaotic mail delivery at Hogwarts than this organised assembly in their kitchen.

A few owls glared at him perceptively and he gulped, returning to his morning paper with purpose.

"Geez, Hermione. You should hear the _rubbish_ they've written about you," Harry crowed, blissfully unaware of Hermione's dark expression. "After years of having our person lives slandered publicly on a daily basis, you'd think people would get bored."

"As if!" Hermione huffed as she eyed the pile of smoking letters. She shooed the last of the straggling owls still hoping for a reply out of their kitchen and sealed the window shut, ignoring a few indignant birds squawking to be let in.

"Get!" Hermione snapped at the owls through the glass pane. "Or I'll hand you over to my kneazle!"

That seems to shock the birds into leaving and they flapped away in a huff. Hermione strengthened the wards around the house to deter owls from finding their hidden apartment and turned to the letters.

"Shall we?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the pile.

Harry pursed his lips, looking like he would much rather face a dragon, and nodded.

* * *

"Well, it would appear most people think I'm a damsel in distress, kidnapped by an evil werewolf and held captive for his nefarious needs," Hermione laughed condescendingly at Harry, who grinned in reply.

They had divided the letters into four major categories: Nosily Concerned (the majority of letters), Biased Appalment (the second largest pile), Sycophantically Congratulatory (a very small pile indeed), and Heavily Cursed _And_ Made It Past the Pentagram (and there were enough of those to really concern the pair).

"It's not every day the Heroine of the Wizarding World flaunts around with a werewolf mating bite; we knew people were going to talk," Harry retorted, peering over his reading glasses at her with unabashed humour glittering in his emerald gaze.

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning back to the unwanted letters.


	9. Chapter 9: When Everyone Panics

_Chapter 9: When Everyone Panics_

Scabior lay in a dark room, nuzzling the worn pillow under his head and deciding on a whim to stay in bed for the rest of the day. With his pack duties on a hiatus due to the Ministry tracking bangle on his ankle, he was not exactly needed anywhere at that particular moment. The Ministry certainly thought itself cleverly covert, placing known werewolves who sided with the Dark Lord on parole and tacking on a tracing charm for good measure on the provision of "public safety". The Ministry also happened to collect the actions of the wolves and go through them with a fine-tooth comb, hoping to locate their safe havens and lead Aurors to their children, who would undoubtedly be removed for, once again, "public safety".

Scabior recalled the hovels those children were relocated to and scowled, pushing his face deeper into his musty pillows.

A loud _crack_ had him leaping into a crouch on the creaking floor, a dark spell on his lips.

"Down boy!" A familiar woman's voice called out.

Scabior frowned and lowered his glowing wand. Charlene.

"Char," Scabior sneered. "What do you want?"

"Is that how you speak to your right hand?" Charlene barked in laughter, leaning against the doorframe lazily.

"Curse the day I made a petulant bitch my right hand," Scabior retorted foully.

Charlene straightened up, her fingers gripping her wand tightly as a red spark fizzed dangerously on its end.

"Sorry Char," Scabior groaned, sitting down on his bed heavily and rubbing his face with a rough hand. "Long week."

Charlene snorted and the heavy atmosphere lightened marginally. "Don't bite your tongue so fast, Scaibs; I've come with bad news. The Clans have been called to a meet tonight."

Scabior looked up in alarm. He stood quickly and pulled off his loose cotton shirt and shrugged on a ragged, long sleeve dress shirt, waving his wand dismissively to button it quickly. He bounced lightly as he squeezed himself into his tight black jeans and sat on the bed to make short work of his combat boots. Rings donned and piercings affixed in place, he breezed past his unabashed observer.

"What's the deal?" He barked, quickly shaking loose the cobwebs of sleep and slipping into commander mode.

Charlene quickly fell into step and slapped a folded newspaper on his chest. Taking the paper, Scabior slowed to read the front page and the only tell he gave was a slight twitch of the jaw.

 _"Heroine Hermione – Ignorant or Insane?"_ Blared the headline in bold font. The rest of the page displayed a large photograph of Hermione – _his Hermione,_ his mind hummed – strolling around the outskirts of Diagon Alley in a long winter coat. She walked away from the photographer, hand in hand with Harry, a sight that had him supressing a vicious growl, and could be seen chatting amicably with her adoptive brother. She looked over her shoulder and caught sight of the photographer, turning her body to expose a rather enormous, bruised bite on the joint of her delicate neck and clavicle.

The photo had been magically charmed to stop at that moment and Scabior felt his feet heavily mould to the floorboards beneath him. She was absolutely stunning, short hair cropped stylishly around her head and hazel eyes glittering with mischief. A wicked smile quirked just the edges of her mouth, a taunt, a threat and an invitation rolled into one. She was clearly a little on the too-thin side and dark bruises lined the underbelly of her eyes, but she glowed like a flame and Scabior felt himself drawn in faster than a moth.

 _Once again, Ms. Granger has shocked the wizarding nation with her flamboyant choice in male suitors. Through the years, Ms. Granger enjoyed a dubious fling with her own self-proclaimed 'brother' Harry James Potter before promptly dumping the Saviour for the likes of Bulgarian heart-throb Seeker Viktor Krum, and has a history of long-term flirtation with youngest Weasley male Ronal Weasley (for the complete list, see page 9). Now it appears the daring damsel has gotten herself into a significant doozy!_

Scabior rolled his eyes and rolled the paper back up, slipping it into the inner front pocket of his thick coat.

"I guess that answers my question," Charlene snarked, cruel laughter glittering in her eyes.

"Fuck off, Charlene," Scabior said half-heartedly.

"Well, after your game of cat and mouse during the war, I figured you were either losing your edge – or just enjoying the chase," Charlene retorted, always quick to have the last word.

Scabior rolled his shoulders and began walking again, shadowed by his right hand out the hovel of an apartment and into a dingy alley. "What are we going to do about this blasted tracker on m'self? 'S'not like I can waltz into the Clan meeting with the damn thing," he muttered, knowing Charlene wouldn't have an answer to his problem.

To his surprise, she did.

"If only you knew someone who can remove tracking or magical restraints," She replied cheekily, tapping a sharpened talon on her chin thoughtfully.

Scabior groaned.

* * *

After side-apparating Charlene to Eaimes Lane, Scabior whispered the address in her ear and her eyes widened marginally at the sight of a new story expanding from Apartment Complex No 26.

"Wicked," she breathed.

"You tell anyone, I'll rip off your head and burn it on a pyre. I'm only showing you so you can tell the girl if anything happens to me," he warned darkly.

"But I thought only a secret keeper could show someone a Fidelus Charm?" Charlene asked quizzically, ignoring Scabior's threat.

Scabior looked at her then, eyebrows pulled together in thought. "Dunno," he shrugged unhelpfully, taking off towards the front door.

Charlene fell in step behind him and they climbed the large staircase leading up to the fourth floor.

He gestured at the woman to stand back and knocked firmly on the door.

* * *

"Well, seems like we have a winner!" Harry chuckled, holding a white, lace laden letter over his head with glee. Clearing his throat, he began with gusto. " _Dear Mrs. Hermione Werewolf, it is my honour to request your marriage be held at Little Endings Party Planning Place, for we believe that marriage between all beasts and creatures is a magical time-"_

Hermione slapped a hand over Harry's mouth to stop him from carrying on and shuddered, gagging at the content. Harry licked her hand in protest and she scrambled back, squealing with horror.

"Harry! That is disgusting!" She shrieked, wiping her wet hand on the nearest sofa. "You're such a damn child!" She howled.

Harry erupted into peals of laughter, toppling off his chair and onto the hard floor with a _whump!_

A knock on the door had them both freezing, eyes darting towards the sound.

"Oh my god. If that's Ginny, I'm about to get it so bad," Hermione whispered despite the silencing runes carved into their walls. She wasn't about to take a risk though; Ginny seemed to have magic-defying hearing.

"You answer the door," Harry demanded petulantly.

"You're the man of the house; you do it," Hermione begged weakly.

"As if," he retorted. "Merlin knows you run the household with an iron fist."

Another loud set of knocks rumbled through the living room and Hermione pursed her lips, shooting Harry a glare. She ignored his innocent eyes peeking from behind the sofa and walked towards the door, inhaling deeply before swinging the door open.

Hermione froze at the sight of "her werewolf" (according to the letters) leaning lazily on the doorframe. She often forgot how tall he was and slowly looked up at his towering form. Lips twisted with mischief and Hermione felt herself pulled into his arms.

"'Ello, beautiful," he purred, hooded eyes trapping her in a heated gaze.

"Hi," she answered breathily, then promptly blushed at the sound.

Scabior seemed pleased at her blush and lowered his head, his breath ghosting on her lips. A loud clearing of a throat sounded behind Scabior and Hermione jolted. Before she could pull out her wand, Scabior was pushing her back into the apartment and bringing another along behind him.

"Mouse, meet Charlene," Scabior introduced with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

Hermione's mouth twisted at the introduction Scabior gifted her with and turned to face the woman entering her apartment. She promptly jumped in surprise. Charlene was quite possibly the biggest woman she'd ever seen, standing at a neat 6"5 and thick with bulging muscles. She was beautiful in a wild, Amazonian warrior way and Hermione felt dismally smaller and weaker in the woman's presence.

"Mouse?" Charlene barked, voice deep and smooth. "Can't say I've heard anyone address the Heroine Hermione Granger as such."

Hermione blushed and raised her chin, challenging the woman with a sharp stare.

"Ah, such fire. I see what attracts you so, Scaibs," Charlene murmured, reaching a hand out to stroke Hermione's jaw. Hermione jerked back just as Scabior slapped the woman's hand down with a growl.

"Erm, hello," Harry stuttered from behind the sofa, rising to his feet and dusting himself off.

"Everyone meet Harry," Hermione announced a little desperately, trying to get the situation under her control.

Scaibor nodded at Harry, who responded in kind. Charlene grinned a sharp tooth smile and extended her hand to Harry. He took it confidently and responded with a rather callous grin of his own.

"Looks like we've wandered into a Gryffindor den," Charlene laughed and Harry smirked, gesturing for the pair to sit.

Hermione dazedly watched two rather intimidating werewolves flop onto their sofas and settle in, looking by all appearances as if they owned the place. Harry took a seat in his favourite settee and began chatting amicably with Charlene, the conversation a little intense and personal but clearly everyone's preference over small talk. Hermione shut the front door and wandered into the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove to boil. She stood there for a moment, hands gripping the bench, and looked out the window at the drizzly London view.

Arms wrapped around her waist and Hermione relaxed, recognising the scent. Grass, sandalwood, and something a little too wild to place. A chin perched on her head as the body moulded against her own and she leaned back, savouring the warmth of the embrace. She was quickly pressed into the benchtop as Scabior leaned back into her with force.

A soft nose moved Hermione's head to the side and ran down the length of her neck, making her sigh as lips pressed over the stinging bite.

She could feel something stirring below deck and she laughed, letting her head drop against his chest as the continued nuzzling her exposed neck.

"You smell too much like Potter," he rumbled deeply, the vibration reverberating into her chest.

"What do you suppose we should do about that?" Hermione laughed lightly in reply, unsure if taunting him was the best answer.

Just as she finished the last syllable of her jibe, Hermione was whipped around and lifted onto the bench by strong hands on her waist. Her legs parted to make room for his frame as he dove at her and lips came crashing down on hers.

Hermione was in heaven, she was sure of it. A large hand wove into her short locks and kept her head in place, another arm tight around her waist as he held her in place. She wrapped her legs around narrow hips and grabbed his collar with force, trying not to lose herself in the werewolf.

As his tongue swirled around her mouth lazily, tasting every inch of her (eyes crossing in pleasure behind closed lids), Hermione pondered the sheer attraction they had to one another. Wrong sides of the battlefield, and yet completely and utter incapable of keeping their hands off each other. She wondered for an instant if the book was wrong – perhaps werewolves really do have mates? The thought amused her and she smiled into their kiss.

Feeling her distraction, Scabior growled and yanked her head back by her short hair. Mewling in displeasure, Hermione quickly released his collar and scrabbled at his hand pulling at her aching skull. Sharp teeth descended on her neck again, just above her current mark, and Hermione couldn't hold back the aching moan that erupted from her chest in response. The heat in her stomach, an almost unfamiliar fire, exploded in her lower abdomen and she whined as hips ground into hers. A wayward hand roved over her chest and Hermione ran sharp nails down his muscled back in approval as fingers roughly pinched a soft nipple.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ, 'Mione, not on the bench we cook on!"

Hermione yelped in surprise and her eyes snapped open (when had she closed them?), peering over Scabior's shoulder and wincing at Harry's distressed expression hovering in the kitchen doorway. The kettle on the stove was whistling loudly (how long had that been going on for?) and she could see Charlene's amused glowing eyes from the lounge.

Glancing down, Hermione realised her blouse was wide open (when the _hell_ had Scabior managed that?!) and a breast had been released from her modest bra, Scabior _still_ rolling the nipple teasingly in his hands, causing her stomach to clench painfully – or was that wantonly? Hermione peered up at the werewolf, pleasure rolling off him like waves, and felt her heart skip at the wicked glint in his eye.

Hermione's shirt was buttoned with Scabior's suddenly drawn wand and before anyone could move, he'd thrown Hermione over his shoulder, turned the stove off with a flick of his wand, and began to march into the lounge.

"Scabior, what?" Hermione gasped incoherently from her perch, holding tightly onto the back of his coat and trying to get her bearings.

"Char, get Potter out of the house. Be here at five o'clock sharp," Scabior barked coldly, ignoring Hermione's confused protests.

"It's my bleeding apartment!" Harry squawked indignantly. "And you can't bully me out of my–" he cut off suddenly and muffled noises of protest could be heard in Harry's direction. Hermione tried to see what the Spartan woman was doing to Harry by twisting and straining around Scabior's waist.

A fierce slap on her ass had Hermione squeaking and grabbing Scabior's coat once more to avoid falling off. "None of that, you," Scabior warned.

The front door slammed and Hermione was carefully deposited on the lounge rug, landing with a disoriented gasp. The curtains to the room were spelled shut, doors slammed closed, and the room lay awash in darkness. Hermione twisted over onto her stomach, panting in dawning terror. Rustling could be heard from a corner of the room and Hermione rolled over quickly to the nearest sofa, squeezing under the dusty space as quickly as she could. Hermione grappled for her wand and realised with horror that it must have fallen out during the ordeal. She shut her eyes and buried her face in her hands, trying to calm herself lest she begin panicking.

The fireplace roared to life and Hermione felt the heat wash over her, the flickering flames doing nothing to warm her chilled bones. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ She berated herself wildly. _How could I have expected any other result?_

 _The wards,_ Hermione thought suddenly. _If I can adjust them I can kick Scabior out of-_

Hands grasped her ankles and began to drag her out from her hiding place. Hermione screamed, digging her nails into the timber flooring and trying to pull herself free.

Then Scabior was on her and touching her and grabbing her and she was screaming, scratching, crying –

After what felt like an eternity of panicking, Hermione's hysterics began to soothe as she suddenly realised the man weighing her down was not doing anything. Scabior was holding her wrists away from her body and she peaked an eye open, one cheek against the floor and bloodied fingernails came into view. His breathing was even and calm and the compression of his lungs filling and deflating against her chest helped her to ease her own trembling lungs by mimicking the action, soothing her own. His face lay buried in the crook of her neck and Hermione tilted her face towards his mess of black hair, carefully breathing in his scent.

Scabior lifted his head and studied her intently through a heavy lidded gaze. Hermione peered up at him, curious what he saw in that searching look.

"Such dramatics, my little mouse," murmured the man teasingly. Hermione huffed a laugh as a few residual tears tracked down her face. Scabior released her wrists to carefully wipe the tear away, never once breaking eye contact with Hermione.

"I'm not going to hurt you again, little one," Scabior announced firmly and Hermione could only blink in return. "But I know I need to prove it, 'stead of just sayin' it." Rough hands carefully cupped her face and lips descended gently on her own, not as demanding or needy as their previous kisses but almost more heated than she had experienced before.

Scabior brought her hand to his lips and carefully sucked on the bloody nails, lapping gently at the blood. Hermione's heart clenched at the soft gesture and she gasped as the wounds healed neatly.

"Werewolf venom carries considerable healing properties; after all, we do change from man to wolf monthly and survive the transition," Scabior explained, watching the cogs in Hermione's amazingly clever brain begin to turn. Smiling, he lowered himself back to her lips. "Let's not talk, yeah?"

Before Hermione could answer, he was kissing her again, soft, sweet, gentle. She threaded fingers through his black matted hair and tilted her head in response, giving the Alpha more access to her mouth. A rough growl rippled through his chest and Hermione sighed, liking this soft side but inexplicably drawn towards his wilder edge.

Scabior stretched Hermione out on the rug, body pressed tight against her own and hips grinding harshly. She protested for a moment, instincts telling her to _run_ , then the moment passed and she melted into his warm, demanding frame.

The flames of the fire flickered and everything was right.

* * *

Charlene returned promptly at five o'clock, bringing with her a very confused and totally trollied Harry Potter singing a Quidditch song. Scabior answered the door and allowed the duo to come tumbling through the door, Harry laughing drunkenly as Char chuckled and supported the boy. Snorting his amusement, Scabior led the Chosen One to the sofa Hermione sat on and placed the laughing boy next to his sister. Hermione dazedly smiled her brother and promptly curled up next to him, placing a tired head on his shoulders.

"Look after her, Potter," Scabior scowled, watching as Harry burst into a fresh peal of laughter at his threat and disturbing the lightly resting girl on his arm. "Or I'll give you back to Char," he added warningly.

That sobered Harry faster than a bucket of cold water and he nodded earnestly, despite the glittering humour evident in his cowed gaze. Scabior leaned over and pressed a soft kiss on Hermione's head then whipped out of the room, leaving his exasperated right hand behind. She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she peeled herself from the door frame, winked at Harry, and followed the man.

"Maria's the one for you!" Char yelled as she left and the door slammed resolutely. Hermione punched the air tiredly in solidarity with the beta's statement and then relaxed once more against her brother.

Harry shook his head and sighed. "Merlin, if I knew getting some would chill you out this much, I would have gotten you laid years ago," Harry mumbled, resting his head on Hermione's soft hair.

"Mm," Hermione replied and Harry grinned, thinking he'd gotten away with his cheek. "Don't make me bat-boogy you, Harry," she mumbled tiredly.

Harry blanched at the thought and peered down at his relaxed sister, chuckling at her peaceful expression.

"Sometimes, I really can't get over the fact that we did it," Harry sighed. "Like, we took down the most powerful Dark Lord in Wizarding History and fought alongside a Light Lord and defended an ancient castle… _And_ at only seventeen."

"It does seem completely ridiculous, doesn't it?" Hermione agreed, looking up at Harry. He seemed years older than a boy going on nineteen as he gazed unseeing into the living room.

"We should write a book. No, wait – _you_ should write a book and I'll help," Harry laughed, wrapping an arm around Hermione. She huffed in reply, lightly whacking his arm with the back of her hand.

"I did all of your prep at school, Potter," she yawned. "You want a book about yourself? You write it. Or better yet, get one of those dictation quills."

Harry hummed in reply and leaned his head back into the sofa. The two world weary magicians fell into slumber.


	10. Chapter 10: Ad Victorem Spolias

_Thanks jlove34 for your kind review and words of support.  
_

* * *

 _Chapter Ten: Ad Victorem Spolias_

Scabior hummed with excitement, skipping down the dark dingy alleyway with reborn confidence. The alleyway lay awash in dark dinge, sick and soot covering every surface and stench permeating the air. Mist curled lazily down the dank alley, swirling around the shadowy figures of squatting beggars pulling at the hems of by passers, scrambling away from the odd boot kick.

Scabior shimmied with anticipation.

"Merlin, Scaibs," Char laughed at his side. "You're certainly pleased with yourself."

Scabior traded a dark smirk with his right hand and jumped to the entrance of a dark, shady pub. He opened the door with a flourish, bowing deeply at Char. "M'Lady," he intoned deeply.

Char walked past him and slapped his head on the way by, earning a disgruntled grunt of irritation for her efforts.

They walked into the crowded pub and were immediately endowed with greetings and cheers.

"Get a move on, then," Scabior hollered into the pub. "I've got five minutes before my tracker tells the Aurors where we are!"

The inhabitants of the pub froze in terror. Scabior grinned darkly, lifting his leg to the bar and slapping his ankle onto the edge. He lifted his plaid pants and displayed a Ministry-grade tracker bangle sparkling on the tan flesh.

No one moved for a moment and then the pub exploded in a flurry of movement. Fifteen seconds into their arrival, Char and Scabior were pushed and shoved into sitting in a large circle of chairs.

"Scabior," intoned a deeply scarred, aging werewolf.

Scabior nodded his head in respect for a brief moment, then leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room with wickedly glittering eyes.

Waratah, Feirleing, Geread, Settling, and Morgan sat around the circle, the last of the un-marked werewolf alphas. Admittedly, no one missed Fenrir.

Morgan, the elder werewolf, began the meeting. "You have threatened us all, Scabior, by bringing the Ministry into our depths."

Scabior laughed. "I doubt I am the first, nor last, tagged werewolf to grace a meeting."

The elder nodded respectfully. "We shall make this meeting short."

"You have endangered us all," cried Geread, his pack agreeing resolutely. "You have marked the Chosen One's self-proclaimed sister, of that I am sure!"

The other werewolves shifted angrily, eager to defend Scabior from the confrontational pack.

"Easy, boy," Scabior crooned, raising his hands in a mockery of innocence. "I have marked the Granger girl – _his words met furious whispers –_ But! It was her decision and her choice for it to be made known. Who dares to proclaim that Hermione Granger, _Desirable Number Three,_ is stupid?"

Dead silence met his declaration.

"She is mine," Scabior stated coldly into the room. "And she will always be mine."

The other werewolves shifted uncomfortably, but none dared to defy him. The alphas remained quiet.

Scabior laughed once more. "Was this the point of the meeting? How childish must you be?"

"Harry Potter has declared that girl under his protection!" Settling whispered darkly into the room. "The press will be upon us every moment from now on as they were today." Uneasy shifting and mutters of support met his declaration.

"I have received the blessing of Harry _Fucking_ Potter," Scabior snapped, scowling at the opposing alpha. "And if the press knows what's best for them, they will not oppose the words of Hermione's declared brother, who also happens to be the _Saviour of the Fucking Wizarding World_ , if I must remind you." The slimy werewolf slunk back, stung by his words.

"You claim to have received the blessing of her brother?" Morgan asked, his milky eyes searching the room unseeingly.

Scabior stood, approaching the blind man and kneeling. He reached out and took the elder werewolf's hands in his own.

"I have," he answered honestly. "And, I emphasise, I will _never_ let her go."

Waratah, the only alpha Scabior respected other than Morgan, dipped his head in deference to Scabior's choice. Scabior winked back, biting his lower lip as his mouth began to twist into a fully-fledged grin.

Morgan smiled, though it was a small quirk of his cracking lips, and nodded. "The meeting is disbanded."

Every werewolf disappeared into the night.

* * *

Scabior returned to Hermione's bed at quarter to one.

"Hello, little mouse," he whispered softly, pulling her frame to his.

"You're a total bastard, you do know that, right?" Hermione's words mumbled from under the pillows.

Scabior chuckled and kissed her right breast, covered by the large night shirt she wore to bed. "Your bastard, no?" Scabior asked, pulling her shirt above her chest and kissing her exposed chest.

Hermione groaned helplessly and wound small, delicate fingers into his hair.

Scabior loved the dangerous art of seducing Hermione Granger. Or was it Hermione Potter now that the girl had accepted Potter's offer of adoption? It didn't matter, especially when he had her lithe body trapped between his hands.

He nibbled on a nipple, suckling and teasingly. Her pert, rose coloured flesh stood proudly against the ministrations, disobedient and wanton.

"Again," Scabior whispered against her tender, heated flesh.

Hermione lifted an exhausted eyelid and asked, helplessly, "Again?"

Scabior smirked.

* * *

Hermione awoke in her bed, feeling refreshed for the first time in… A year? She pondered thoughtfully. Her mind was thankfully silent, the crashing chaos that had disturbed her every waking (and occasionally sleeping) moment now a quiet hum in the back of her mind. She felt a warm body pressed beneath her, her head resting on a tightly corded shoulder and hands splayed possessively on a well-defined chest.

Hermione raised her head and peered down at the strange man inhabiting her bed. She blushed darkly as she realised he was fully bare, the sheet slung low on his hips and barely just covering his modesty. She let out a soft exhale through her nose, amused that his man could literally spend all night getting to… _Know her_ , per say, and she would still blush at his naked form. _I really am such a damn prude,_ she thought in exasperation.

Hermione pushed her elbow beneath her head and placed her chin in her hand, propping her head to survey the handsome man. Like most people Hermione knew, especially since the war, his body lay littered with scars. An enormous, rope-like scar ran the length of his upper chest and wound down, ending within the _V_ of his hips. Canine marks and teeth indentations scattered his broad shoulders, raised and worn as if received when he was young.

Hermione let herself study his face clinically, amazed by how peaceful the snarky idiot looked in the depths of sleep. Scabior's strong brow shadowed his eyes slightly, making him look villainous in a muggle movie sort of way and his high, aristocratic cheekbones gave away his pureblood breeding. A strong jaw elegantly defined his face, dusted with a five o'clock shadow. He was completely and utterly breathtaking.

Hermione let her hand trail down his chest, fingers fluttering just above the sheet playfully. She had noticed a slight flare of his nostrils moments ago and she smiled, watching the man play possum.

She lowered her lips to his ear and whispered, "Hello, beautiful."

Scabior's lips twisted in a vicious grin and he quirked an eye open to study her. "Hello, yourself," he answered and Hermione's breath caught in her throat, recalling the day on the battlefield when they had spoken those words.

Hermione moved her lips to hover over Scabior's and the man groaned at her teasing, pulling her down to kiss. Hermione evaded his attempts and laughed, squirming away.

"I have… Oh! An… Idea," Hermione tried to say through laughter as the werewolf playfought and tossed her around the bed with ease.

"Mmm?" Scabior hummed, pinning her down under his frame and trapping her hands over her head.

"Do you remember that chase in the forest?" Hermione asked carefully, watching for his reaction.

Scabior's eyes darkened, electric blue staring down at her through thick rings of khol. "Do I?" He murmured suggestively, pressing a hard, wanton heat against her knickers.

"I want a rematch," Hermione breathed, squirming away as he tried to position himself between her legs.

"And wha' do I get if I catch ya again, itty bit?" Scabior asked, his rough voice reverting to his deep Scottish lilt. He lowered his nose to run the length of her neck, raising the hairs on Hermione's arms.

Hermione resisted the desire to submit to his teasing and wrapped her legs around him, twisting and bucking harshly. She flipped them over and sat on his hips with a victorious smirk, holding his wrists over his head in a mockery of dominance.

"Anything you want," Hermione answered softly, once more hovering her lips over Scabior's, nipping playfully. "The spoils to the victor and all that," she elaborated, looking into his eyes with intensity.

"Well, fuck," Scabior whispered. "You want me ta hunt you, catch you, bend you over and fuck you in a forest, my little mouse?" He asked dangerously, eyes glinting with steel and completely still.

Hermione blushed and moved to dismount at his reaction. Scabior grabbed her hips, pinning her in place, and arched into her spread legs so forcefully her knees lifted off the bed. She grabbed onto his shoulders for balance and keened as a hard length pressed against her core.

"It would be an honour, you kinky bitch," Scabior agreed breathily, laughingly, still brutally rubbing against her and blue eyes narrowing in pleasure as she gasped and incoherently tried to speak.

Hermione scowled at Scabior's language, ready to open her mouth and curse him seven ways from Sunday, when he quickly jumped up and bowled her over onto the covers. She let out an embarrassing sound of distress at the sight of his unabashed nakedness and arousal. Scabior pulled a pair of pants off the floor and jumped into them, forgoing his boxers and wincing as he shifted his hips and zipped. He then turned and tackled her, pushing her over once more onto the comforter.

"Ladies first," he whispered as he peppered her lips with short but brutal kisses. "You get five minutes."

Hermione turned to ask him _what exactly he thought he was doing_ and was suddenly side-apparated without warning. Her vision spun as she was dumped on a forest floor, squawking indignantly. Scabior crouched and pressed a searing kiss against her lips. Something dropped into her lap and then he was gone in a swirl of leaves and twisting air.

Hermione sat on the soft leafy flooring, totally and utterly stumped. She realised she was in the middle of a somewhat familiar forest ( _Forest of Dean_ , her mind supplied, though it could really be any forest for Merlin's sake), wearing only a pair of ankle socks, her 'special occasion' lacy knickers, and a thin camisole. She shivered in the pre-dawn chill and scrambled to her feet, astonished by the sudden turn of events. Scabior had dropped her wand in her lap and she grabbed the wood handle tightly.

 _Not right now!_ Her mind wailed at an absent Scabior, wishing she had kept her enormous mouth shut. _Dammit_!

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to focus. _Five minutes_. That wasn't enough time to do _squat_. Well, she could apparate, she reasoned. To the Fidelius'd island, which Harry and Hermione never returned to unward. But that seemed a bit like cheating; she'd save that one as an ace up her sleeve.

The scent of pine and moss filled her senses and Hermione felt her mind quieten. She was suddenly transported back to those days of horcrux hunting, the feeling of single-minded drive to continue, survive, _hide._ Her heart began to beat strongly through her veins, the taste of adrenaline sparkling in the back of her mind. She reached out her magic, using the tendrils to sense her surroundings.

A rabbit hopped a few metres away; a crow cawed in the distance; a large source of energy moved in the east – a river. She dredged up her memory of the forest using the rising sun and river as a landmark and focused on creating a map in her head. North held nothing but steep hills and chirping insects. South was more habitable, but closer to muggle hunting grounds and increasing her chances of crossing paths with another person (rare but possible). East – a river. West, nearly endless forest.

Hermione opened her eyes and breathed deeply, calmly. She gazed at the forest around her with a two dimensional, large angle perspective given to her by the _Doe Eye_. As she had suspected, the curse remained just below the surface of her conscious, waiting to be called forth once more. Her mind hummed with animalistic singularity, encouraging her to head east, towards the water. _Safe,_ her instincts told her. Water would dampen her smell.

Hermione quickly transfigured her socks into moccasins with enforced soles, the best she could do to protect her feet on short notice without using precious magic to craft running shoes. She desperately wished she had extra clothing and knew transfiguring more would waste time. It was surely nearly three minutes since Scabior had deposited her in the clearing.

Hermione took off into the forest, flitting noiselessly through the underbrush towards the faraway feel of the flowing river, her magic scouting ahead and aiding with her with each dodge of branches and leaping over obstacles. She was careful to not overdo herself but ran with urgency, racing away from the little clearing. Hermione cast a featherweight charm on her shoes as she jumped over a log and continued her escape. The spell, as she had hoped, removed her footprints and aided with muffling the noise of her escape.

Five minutes rang loudly in her mind and Hermione jerked to a halt. She concentrated deeply and focused on creating an illusion, sweeping her wand and arm past her chest and drawing forth a mirror image of herself. Opening her eyes, Hermione looked into familiar eyes and a slightly translucent but semi-passable copy of herself.

"Head southeast," Hermione whispered. The illusion nodded and took off, the magic not guaranteed to last long but enough to cause a diversion. Hermione cast an odour eliminating charm on herself, one that had saved her while living with two boys, and took off northeast.

She huffed out a wild laugh of joy, racing through the trees as a wolf howled in the distance.


	11. Chapter 11: Love Is A Dog From Hell

**A/N:** Apologies for the repost! I just noticed a few glaring spelling issues and missing words and it was driving me insane :(

 _Thanks so much to_ _riaroo400 & __Robin Lynn Smith for your lovely reviews :) I ran out of steam on this story, so decided to wrap it up and mark it as complete. If I think of anything else, I'll post the chapters as one-shots._

 _Poem and chapter title by Charles Bukowski, who was a grumpy old bastard that loved his fair share of sex - so hopefully he would have appreciated this chapter. This is my first lemon, so if it's too cringeworthy let me know._

 _ **Warnings** : graphic lemon – full steam ahead!_

* * *

 _Chapter Eleven: Love Is A Dog From Hell_

Hermione stopped at the edge of the river, a behemoth of white foam and churning waves. Her instincts encouraged her ahead, to crash into the white capped rage and let the undercurrent pull her away. A roaring waterfall tumbled into the abyss, frothing and cascading in untouched, intrinsic beauty.

Hermione and Harry had practiced becoming animagi over the past couple years, Harry finally transforming into an enormous stag while Hermione patiently waited and practiced. Her magic never settled enough, her mind never clearing.

Hermione knew it was time.

Scabior crashed through underbrush, emerging with a smirk on his face and victory in his eyes. Hermione smiled at him, brown eyes glittering with mischief, and jumped.

* * *

Scabior inhaled sharply as his Hermione, a gorgeous vision, turned to him. She breathed calmly, her chest rising and dropping softly. Her short, wild brunette hair shone as a halo in the early sun and rays of light beamed around her barely dressed form. Her eyes jarred him, the irises expanded to the corners of her eyes and pupils dilated beyond humanly possible. She looked like a nymph of legends, a beautiful spirit of the river.

She smiled, a mysterious hello and goodbye in one, and she leapt off the edge of the waterfall.

Scabior felt his heart stutter in his chest, racing to where she once stood. He stared down into the depths, furious and scared and breathless – and then he saw her. Or rather, it.

A small river otter twisted and turned in the waves, rising to the surface and floating on its back past the rising mist and churning water. The tiny creature held a wand in its teeth and _waved_ at him, amused. It then shot off down the river, dipping below the chaotic waves.

Scabior grinned.

* * *

Hermione laughed, little bubbles bursting from her chest and rising to the surface. She twisted and turned down the river, occasionally catching sight of her hunter but never near enough to draw concern.

She whipped through the undercurrents, learning to ride the wave and flow around boulders within a hair's breadth, never reaching impact. The freedom of the river filled her with joy and pushed her to swim harder, faster, _more._

A split in the river loomed near and Hermione curled to the right, turning away from Scabior on her left. She dove in deep to hide from sight, the delta dark and murky. She held her breath as the silted water filtered through soft fur, squinting little eyes to protect herself from the suspended particles.

Moments passed like molasses and Hermione surfaced, watching the large mouth of the off-branching river hundreds of metres away slowly fade into the distance. She smiled around her wand, an odd baring of little teeth in her form, and sped down the shore.

Once the river settled marginally, the waters turning crystal from brown, Hermione neared a steep bank. She used tiny hands to pull on an ancient tree root, pulling herself up onto the muddy edge. Once she stood in her little form, overlooking the edge down to the moving waters, she allowed herself to change back to Hermione.

Reverting to human was marginally more difficult than before, but she focused with ease and drew herself back. Hermione checked her frame and was pleased to see her clothes had survived the transition. She wandlessly dried her soggy moccasins and camisole, crouching in the shade of an English Oak and scanning the shores of the river for any sign of Scabior.

Upon seeing nothing but a few chirping birds, Hermione smiled, pleased, and cut a scrap of her camisole from the bottom lip. A few centimetres wide, the grey fabric strip fluttered in the breeze. Her camisole now rose high on her stomach but the effort was worth it as she imagined Scabior's reaction with humour. She hung the scrap on a low branch of the tree and recalled wrapping her worn, pink scarf on that English Oak a year ago; she wondered if Scabior would keep this gift too.

Hermione scouted the forest ahead, magic flowing ahead and returning quickly with nothing other than whispers of birds, insects and moss. Her expanded irises and amplified pupils provided strange perspective of light, shadows, movement. She raced forward into the forest, silent as a doe and galloping past the underbrush.

Hermione knew her time was looming near. Her magic was reaching exhaustion, lacking in practice and fortitude from months of wallowing in her apartment. She had one last chance to escape, to show off her ability and strength. She retracted her magic and flitted past trees, logs, branches blindly.

The sun was beginning to rise high in the sky and Hermione felt her lungs burning fiercely, skin tanning under the ultraviolet touch. Her legs ached and her mind spluttered in exhaustion. A crackle sounded to her left and Hermione turned just in time to see a shadow leaping at her. Hermione turned and fell hard onto the forest floor in sync with her attacker, hitting the leafy ground with an _oomph_ and using her momentum to lift her feet and press both soles of her shoes against the chest of the werewolf. She pushed hard, throwing him up and over her frame, and quickly rolled backwards. She landed on her feet in a crouch and all was still between the two.

Scabior looked out of breath for the first time since she met him and Hermione felt a vindictive smile quirk the edges of her lips. He stared at her with sparkling intensity, rising to his feet and encircling her with a wide berth. She turned on the balls of her feet, careful to keep the werewolf in view.

Scabior wore nothing but his plaid pants rolled up to his knees, strong chest and shoulders exposed to the filtered light of the forest and feet bare. An arousal bulged just below the dip of his pants, tenting the soft fabric. She watched the wild creature appraise her, taunt her with a quirk of an eyebrow above hooded eyes.

Scabior tutted, unable to stop himself from teasing as Hermione watched him silently. "What do we 'ave 'ere?" Scabior crooned through his Scottish lilt into the silence, the birds and insects long since quieting, and Hermione pursed her lips.

Hermione waited until he stood with his back to an overturned log and she threw out her hand, sending a wave of pure magic at him. Scabior's eyes widened in surprise as he was knocked over, the log tripping him and he toppled head over heels into the underbrush in a dramatic _crash!_ Hermione didn't waste time gloating and took off, racing away from the tiny clearing. She ran alongside a small creek, heart pumping loudly in her ears as she heard crashing behind her. She could almost taste him in the air, feel his nips on her heels, sense the warmth of his chest on her back.

Hermione huffed a victorious laugh as she neared another small clearing, welling up her magic to apparate herself to the Fidelius'd island. She had one last burst of energy until she was magically exhausted and knew this was her final chance to win this game of cat and mouse. Just as she crashed into the clearing, her mind distracted while focusing on her safe haven, Scabior tackled her.

Hermione tumbled with her predator, rolling down a soft hill of grass and finally resting in a tangle of limbs at the edge of the clearing. She gasped for breath, her lungs knocked harshly by Scabior's attack, and struggled weakly against his hold.

Scabior pinned her hands above her head with one hand, the other twirling a scrap of grey fabric in his free hand with a glint in his eye. He sat on top of her stomach, pinning her under his dead weight.

"Oh, sweetheart," Scabior tutted in a mockery of sympathy, leaning his face close to hers. "Caught by the big, bad wolf, eh?" He teased, nipping her neck with sharp teeth. Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose and struggled even harder against his hold, desperate to get back up and _run_.

Scabior rode out her bucks with ease and he laughed, a deep, reverberating sound. She stopped struggling and watched with confused eyes as he brought the scrap of fabric above her head and tied her wrists together firmly. With a whispered sticking spell, Hermione felt her wrists bound and trapped to the grassy ground above her head and she thrashed in protest.

"Never willin' to give up, are ya?" Scabior crooned once more, his now free hands roving her frame. Hermione opened her mouth to finally snap at him and was immediately devoured by Scabior's lips, stealing her breath and viciously tasting her mouth.

In the back of her mind, Hermione felt her knickers rip off with a single pull of Scabior's hand, the soft fabric disintegrating under his strength. She moaned into his kiss as a rouge hands tweaked sensitive nipples and he pulled her camisole down to expose her pale breasts. Scabior pulled away from her mouth to descend on a pink peak with fervour. She arched helplessly against his mouth as he teased the nipple between teeth, sucking and rasping a rough tongue against the soft flesh as he ruthlessly rolled the other between the pads of calloused fingers.

Hermione pulled against her restraints helplessly, head falling back as she lay exposed in the forest clearing. Her abdomen twisted in need and she felt warmth expanding from her core, a slick heat spreading between her thighs. Hermione's eyes closed in embarrassment as Scabior nipped his way down her stomach and pulled her knees apart, displaying herself fully for the werewolf.

"Look at me, love," Scabior whispered, mouth so close to her parted lips that she could feel the heat of his breath on her sensitive skin.

Hermione peered down at him through her eyelashes and inhaled in surprise at the animal intensity, the sheer need _,_ in Scabior's eyes. He kept their gaze locked as he lowered his mouth to her womanhood, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the tender nerves. Hermione cried out and shuddered as her mind flooded with uncontrolled desire, thighs wrapping against her will around his head.

Scabior sucked on the wet, plush skin with pleasure and moaned into her entrance, the vibrations sending shocks up Hermione's spine. A tongue slipped into her and Hermione cried out, hips pressing against his mouth and desperately wishing her hands were free so she could hold the man's head against her as he pulled back and dove in, a vicious cycle. A finger pressed against the oversensitive nub of her entrance, the rough pad swirling and flicking cruelly.

Hermione's eyes rolled into the back of her head as she cried out, back arching painfully and world crashing around her. She whispered his name reverently through the agony of crescendo, helplessly succumbing to the long strokes of his tongue pulling her through a mind-numbing orgasm.

Hermione had barely recovered, world still spinning, when she was pulled up sharply and pressed against a tree, large hands sliding under her thighs and lifting her up against the rough bark. Her hands were unbound and they wrapped around Scabior's neck immediately as he nuzzled her bite mark at the base of her neck and bit down harshly. She keened as the feeling of sinking teeth did little to distract the pulsing head of Scabior's cock pressing into her abused entrance. Hermione gasped and grabbed the back of his matted hair, pulling his head back to stare into flashing eyes.

"You have no idea, darlin'," Scabior whispered reverently as she griped the hair at the back of his head. "How often I dreamt of taking you against tha' tree."

Hermione whined in pleasure as he continued pressing into her, his hands moving her legs so her knees bent over his shoulders and hips shifted to accept his cock as he sheathed himself fully inside her.

Hermione gasped deep breaths, her body reeling, and clenched against him.

"Sweetheart, hold on," he murmured, eyes closed and face taut. After a beat of stillness, Hermione adjusting to the feeling of Scabior and the man centring himself, he opened kholed eyes to pin her with an electric blue stare. He pressed a heated kiss against her lips and Hermione wrinkled her nose at the taste of herself. She immediately forgot as Scabior withdrew himself slowly, the head of his cock stretching her entrance warningly, and then slammed back into her.

Hermione cried out in pleasure, griping his shoulders as he increased his pace and pounded her harder against the tree trunk. Each thrust brought stars to Hermione's eyes, sparks flashing across her gaze with mind-numbing intensity. Scabior kissed her harshly as his hips bucked into hers, hands holding her waist firm against the tree and lifting her slightly to change angle.

Scabior groaned as Hermione cried into his mouth, the new position slamming into a bundle of nerves in her that nearly broke her with pleasure. She raked her nails down his tense chest as she arched and gasped. Scabior gripped her hips tighter, jaw tensing and movement erratic. Hermione felt herself shatter and fall off the edge, walls clenching around Scabior and pulling him with her. He dropped his head against her neck as he joined her, cock throbbing and filling her with his seed as he slowed his rough pace.

At last, Scabior stopped moving, keeping himself pressed against Hermione's trembling form as she slowly recovered.

"God," Hermione breathed, head tilted against the tree and eyes closed. Scabior hummed his agreement and repositioned her legs, wrapping them around his waist. He pulled them away from the tree and summoned their wands, apparating away from the forest in a flash of movement.

They landed in a heap on her bed, the pair falling into plush sheets and haphazard pillows. Hermione inhaled sharply as Scabior slowly pulled out of her, his essence dripping down her thigh.

"How was tha'?" Scabior asked cheekily, pressing his chest against her back as she rolled onto her side. "Just how you hoped?"

Hermione cracked an eye open to pin him with a warning gaze over her shoulder, though she couldn't help but smile at his antics. She stretched to grab her wand and clean herself, but Scabior stopped her movement with a warm hand on her wrist.

"Leave it, love," he whispered against her lips, hand wrapped possessively on her hip. "I like when you smell of me."

She hummed noncommittedly and relaxed in a boneless mess on the sheets, too exhausted to care. She smiled secretly to herself, pressing her back against his warm chest as they dozed off.

* * *

Hermione awoke to long shadows casting the room in darkness. She realised she was bare and blushed lightly, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest. Scabior sat in bed with his back against her headboard, gazing into space as he sprawled completely naked and doing little to cover his modesty. Scabior smiled down at her softly, a tender look she hadn't seen in the man's expression before and it took her breath away.

"What are you doing?" Hermione whispered gently, rolling over onto her stomach and propping a pillow under her head, trying to not scare him away.

"Remembering," Scabior answered softly. He didn't look like he would elaborate, but as the silence stretched he laughed lightly. "There's this muggle poet," he continued and Hermione's eyebrows drew together in confusion. " _We Will Taste The Islands And The Sea._ It's pretty short; I memorised it when I was a teen. Merlin forbid the pack finds out about tha'," he chuckled deeply.

"Tell me?" Hermione asked, looking up at him curiously.

Scabior's face twisted in thought and he slowly began to recite. " _I know that some night, in some bedroom, soon… My fingers will rift through soft, clean hair. Songs such as no radio plays. All sadness, grinning into flow_."

Hermione blinked at him in surprise. It was the first time she had seen anything other than animalistic drive, something beneath his rough exterior and alpha mentality. Her heart ached in her chest as she watched his kholed, sky blue eyes turn to her, flickering with unidentified emotion, while long, ringed fingers slowly carded through her hair.


End file.
